In the Shadows
by bonesluver25
Summary: Booth makes his career living in the shadows until a frantic call one night places him on the trail of abducted anthropologist, Temperance Brennan. In danger and on the run, the two must learn to trust each other if they have any hope of survival. BB AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Afghanistan, six years ago **

The Army medic flicked dirt off his scrubs and double checked the man tucked in the emergency bed. Some twist of fate had led to a mobile hospital being set up in the remains of an actual hospital. The medicine was gone, and most of the equipment was broken or too old to be practical, but what was left of the place was sound, easy to clean and protect, and the heating still worked, a huge plus from the frigid shelters they had been going through the past seven months. It had been here three weeks now. The medic was sneaking off to smoke. He met up with a guy named Richmond, an infantryman who worked the front. Richmond had a supply of American cigarettes. He might as well have been God.

Sneaking a smoke in a mobile hospital unit is something everyone should do once. His spot was a stairwell at the back of the building that led up to what had been the second floor. It was covered, hard to see anyone from, and it drafted enough heat in from the hall to stay warm enough to smoke in. Richmond was already there. Even though sneaking a smoke was kind of a private act, Afghanistan was like a fucking horror movie. You never went on your own.

They smoked in silence for a moment. Richmond spoke first.

"So, you see that Staff Sergeant they brought in yet?"

"No. He dead?"

"No, but just about. This morning they cleared a home about twenty minutes from here. They found him in the basement. Last of his unit, poor bastard."

"Is he walking and talking?"

"Not really. They can't get much out of him. They found his dog tags so they have his name, but that's about it."

The medic took a deep breath. Whoever the Staff Sergeant was, he'd been through some shit if he was the last of his unit. The medic knew better than to ask if he'd been tortured. It wasn't a possibility, like winning the lotto. It was a hard fact.

"What did they do to him?"

"Not real sure just yet- lots of minor injuries, stuff that will heal. His right hand is broken up pretty bad. Last I saw him; his hand was bundled in a wad of gauze. He's in the bay now I think, just waiting for a shrink to come and get him talking. Not so easy to do with a bullet through your hand. Give him some morphine, loosen him right up."

"I'll see if I can get someone rounded up. I got two questions. The injuring of the hand is symbolic, right? I think I've seen this before, about four months ago. Private came through with three of his fingers cut off. To that point in time, he'd been a sniper."

"Makes sense- our boy is a Ranger, so being a sniper would fit."

"What's his name?"

"Booth."

"Booth?"

"Staff Sergeant Booth."

They finished their cigarettes in silence. The medic made it back down to the main bedding area. It smells like antiseptic and blood, every time, all the time.

**Philadelphia, a year later **

He'd walked into the church with booze on his breath. This place, these hallowed halls, had been an escape for him. He didn't feel like this was an escape now. He felt like the world was closing in. He couldn't drink it away. He didn't feel any better but he felt calmer. He walked out of the basilica, leaving the graceful arches of the church behind him. He stepped out into winter night, the last of the ice crunching softly under his feet. He wanted to make a call, but he didn't know where his phone was. He had his wallet, but his keys and phone were probably back at the bar. Better that way. His hand hurt, but it did when it got cold. The doctors told him he would heal all the way, but he wondered why it hurt when he got cold. Maybe he was still healing.

He walked a long time, Philadelphia soaking into his skin. He didn't take leave often, and when he did, it wasn't long. But this was different. There had been a death in the family, and he hadn't even been brave enough to talk to Pops yet. He walked along the boulevard, his breath spilling from his mouth in the chill air. He had quit smoking in anticipation of being a dad. He could have sworn he kept a ratty half pack in his coat pocket, but they were gone now too.

There was a phone booth just outside a Chinese place. He was hungry enough to eat now, and calm enough not to get kicked out, but he had a call to make first. His fingers stumbled a little, numb from the freeze, but hit the right keys. He had change for the call.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Pops."

"Hey Shrimp, what are you doing?"

"I'm over on the eastside, near the church there."

"You don't sound so hot, son. What's going on?"

"I have been drinking a little. I... well; I know I shouldn't be, but Rebecca, she had an abortion. She was just past her first trimester and she decided to do it. No more baby."

"Why did she do that? I mean, was she sick or something?"

"No, she wasn't. Just, said she had enough. Wanted her own life. Didn't want to be tied up with my problems. Didn't want me to turn out like my own father. For the best, she said."

His chest heaved in the cold air. He did his best to breathe. His chest felt tight.

"The bar, they took my keys and stuff. Can you come get me until tomorrow? I'm sorry I know you expect this kinda shit from Jared, but- "

"Where are you, kiddo? I mean, I know the church, but are you there?"

"No, there's a Chinese place, uh, Golden Hour, it's called."

"I'll meet you there in a little bit. Get yourself something to eat. I got it."

"Thanks, Pops, I'll see you in a bit. I got some things I need to talk about?"

"I think that falls safely under the box marked no shit, son. I'm not gonna give you the 'I told you so' speech."

The Golden Hour was busy. He was half heartedly working on a bowl of egg drop soup when Pops sat down at the chair across from him. He looked at the old man, and said nothing.

"Seeley, I know this isn't easy. It never is. I didn't like that one, and now I like her even less. But let's look at the bright side, Shrimp. You got the rest of your life. What are you gonna do with it? Is the Army still for you? You got what, a year or so left? You were able to requal sniper with no real problems. Even if that isn't your choice, you have a head on your shoulders. Use it. Remember when you were a kid and you talked about being a cop all the time? Or when you and Jared used to play spies? Your doors are wide open, son."

"I wanted the doors that I had Pops. I was perfectly fine with those. Look, Jared is the military man. I mean, he just picked up his commission and everything, I'm sure he'll do great. The Army was something I can do, it's not who I am."

"Then who are you, Seeley? You know, much as you might hate to hear it; your father was like that after the service. Aimless, no direction. Even after he got his barbershop, he's never really keened in on anything after that."

"I'm not like him. I'm not. I have a direction, I do. Right now I just feel like the ghost of who I was going to be."

"Ghosts are dead, kiddo. Dead and gone. You are still breathing. Look, I remember when I was about your age; your grandma and I lost one, just after your father. I was crushed, and your grandma was even worse. I went to talk to a priest, a fellah that I knew from my time in the service. He told me, he said Hank, when a child is meant to come into this world, fate and nature conspires. If that child was meant to be here, then it will. Until then, it's… someplace else, not a thing of this world. Just be glad you didn't have the kid and then lost it."

"I know what you mean, Pops. But Rebecca, she told me I wasn't... I wasn't good. Something changed in me after coming home the last time. It's more than being on edge. It's, I don't know. I think she might be right. Maybe I wasn't father material. I sure as hell wasn't husband material, she made that abundantly clear."

The old man shifted in his seat. It was clear that he was uncomfortable. Sometimes, even the biggest heart just does not know what to say.

"Tell you what Pops. Order some soup. I got a job offer last week, something I have to consider carefully. Wanna hear about it?"

Pops looked tired. He laced his fingers together solemnly. "Tell me."

**Washington, D.C., two weeks ago **

Brennan loved the turn of the seasons here. The fall gave her many excuses to wear the variety of coats she collected. Although not a clothes horse per se, Brennan had a taste for coats and the coat closet in her apartment was more than modest. This morning was a navy blue trench coat she'd seen in the window of a vintage clothing store. Her friend Angela had suggested it for her. This morning, she was tending to the last of her immediate administrative business at the Jeffersonian and handing the reins over to her assistant. She'd been pushing for a chance to go to an archaeological dig near Thurso, Scotland. A flood had displaced several bodies interred at a small cemetery. Crews sent to rebuild the site found a sealed room under the edge of the cemetery. It turned out to be the foyer of a pagan burial mound. A church had been built over the site sometime in the sixteenth century, and local records indicated that the mound itself had been undisturbed since long before that, possibly dating back as early as fifth of sixth century AD.

The Scottish National Historical Society welcomed the opportunity to have her. Arrangements were made for her to use a local house as a temporary examination room. The remains would possibly be reinterred there if possible, pending a safety and structural integrity report. If not suitable for visitation or reinterring, the entire mound would be excavated. The initial dig time, pending safety reports, was set at four months, possibly as much as a year. Brennan didn't see her involvement stretching to a year, but if it did, she'd welcome it.

She stopped in at a bookshop in the terminal. The flight was long enough for leisure reading, which she didn't make time for. She'd even thought about writing a novel of her own, but she questioned where to go with it. A part of her, a more clinical part, knew that writing something related to work would fill pages, if not volumes, but a more wistful part of her, the part that desired actual romance and adventure, wasn't certain if she knew enough about either subject. What Temperance Brennan had achieved in her professional life, she lacked in her personal one. Her twenties had been consumed with studies and school and digs and internship. She had made it to this point with no long term entanglements and no children. Her last relationship had been an on and off with a former professor. It hadn't ended per se, but it had been long enough between on that she thought it as mostly off. Angela warned her of the dangers of post thirty dating.

At the tender age of twenty seven, she had been made the lead Forensic Anthropology at the Jeffersonian Institute. She'd hit the ground running, gaining funding and reputation very quickly. If anyone doubted her abilities as a leader, it was actually her. She didn't see it. If anything, she was a lead from the back type, even if Angela saw different.

A month worth of scrambling had ended with her here. She was on work visa rather than getting a passport, as work visa was faster to obtain. She read idly for a moment, and at some point, her mind drifted toward Scotland, but not the Scotland she knew she was headed to. She envisioned rough Scottish landscapes and rough Scottish men. She frowned slightly, thinking there would probably be no time for that, either. She focused on the book more intently, hoping to wrap herself up in the story. She was almost done when the plane touched down.

**Inverness, Scotland, the same night **

Brennan checked into her overnight hotel. She'd be taking the train to Thurso in the morning. She finished the book slowly. The room service was all meats and sauces and after a long flight, Brennan was thinking something more like a salad. Maybe vegetarian if she could find it. She sauntered down the main boulevard, no direction in mind, mostly just looking for something that seemed warm and inviting. The lights of the small city seemed to focus here, at least from the train station. She'd taken out her other coat, a heavier dress coat in white. Rain started to speckle the ground. She turned into the first place she could find, a local pub called the Lion's Den. Dinner that night was simple- roasted chicken and potatoes. She finished it off with a local beer. Normally, she wasn't a beer drinker, but the local brew was hoppy with a little bite to it, and the handsome bartender, a tall blond man with a thick Scottish accent, had bought it for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Inverness, Scotland, the Lion's Den**

She finished her meal, content and tired. She felt the weight of the flight on her shoulders now. She finished the last of her beer, and paid the bill. The boulevard stretched out into the night, and the length of the street was polished with rain. She started walking back toward the hotel, lost in her thoughts. She knew that as soon as the dig started and she really began doing her job in earnest, she wouldn't think about things. She never did, not in the way that she was supposed to. It wasn't that her life lacked direction. She wanted to eventually become the head of the Forensics department. She just didn't know if a life beyond that was possible. She didn't know if a life beyond that was worth it.

She rounded a corner, just a block down from her hotel. A short slender man stood at the corner, trying to light a cigarette. He looked at her and tossed it into the street. He waved a hand at her, trying to get her attention.

"Good evening, Missus. I don't suppose you have a cigarette to spare?"

He didn't have the Scottish brogue. It was softer, more rounded, almost more considerate in a way. Brennan didn't have an ear for accents when it came to the British Isles. She knew he didn't sound like everyone in the bar. She guessed he was Irish. She took a few steps toward him.

"Sorry, I don't smoke. I think there is a shop just down-"she made a vague gesture. Something dull and hard exploded across the back of her head. She never made it back to the hotel.

**Eleven days later**

She'd been moved again. This room smelled of must, dirt and urine. Her entire world had been defined in smell. She had no idea how long she'd been here. She'd passed out during the trip here. She needed water. She'd been tied to a chair, wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. She didn't know if she'd really slept at all. Fear and had motivated her to stay awake, to think, to move. She been battered, pushed around and knocked down physically more times than she could count. She didn't understand why she was here, and no one had so much as uttered a word to her other than _move_. She'd been periodically given bottles of water and apples. It was enough to keep her alive, but just barely.

She was cold, damn cold. She could feel cold tile under feet. They'd taken her shoes. She could hear wind, a harsh wind, blowing outside the room. A click, like an opening door. The hood was pulled back part way, and her head was pulled back. Cold water poured all over. She swallowed what she could, knowing this might be it. Rough hands groped her breasts and pinched her nipples. She heard a zipper coming down near her face. She knew what all this meant. It wasn't the first time. She pulled away from the warm hands that smelled of dirt. The room filled with the smell, which by now she knew well. Sweat, cheap aftershave, and whiskey.

"I gave you water. Now be nice."

Her lips parted, just a bit. He shoved it in her face, his hands on both sides of her head, forcing it in further. She gagged. She bit. Hard.

He screamed out loud and hit her in the face. The chair tipped over all the way, and her head bounced off the tile. It wasn't the first time she'd been hit, either. She tasted blood in her mouth. She spit it out. He leaned down next to her. She felt cold metal pressed to her face. She knew what it was. He pulled the trigger. A metallic click. She bounced, shocked not to have been shot.

"Next time, the chamber won't be empty, bitch."

He pulled the chair back up. He slapped her face with the back of his hand. Her ears ringing from the fall, all this did was sting. He slapped her again, front hand this time. He moved in close. He was breathing a little faster and he was more aroused than he had been before. This was getting him excited. The hood was taken off. Her eyes still didn't register what light there was. Tears welled in her eyes. She was about to get violated again.

Heavy footsteps came down the hall. The door creaked open.

"And what the fuck are you doin', mate?"

A gunshot splintered the night. The noise of it filled the room. The bastard fell to the ground. Brennan got ready to die. The room became very still. Whoever had shot him began to move toward her. He cut the duct tape at her wrists.

"Doctor Temperance Brennan?" American. He was an American.

"I am."

"For right now, call me Dunn. We need to get out of here. Can you walk?"

"I can't see very well."

"Just hold onto my sleeve."

He walked slowly, down a short flight of stairs and toward a door. Brennan's vision began to adjust. He smelled like cigarettes and soap. She stepped in something warm. Too thick to be urine. Blood.

He paused at the door.

Listen. My car is half a block down. Walk quickly, but don't run. Anyone says anything, don't respond. "

He walked casually down the street. It was late night or early morning, she wasn't sure which. She wasn't even sure where she was. The fall in the chair had made her dizzy. She was still scared. She didn't feel like asking questions just yet. She didn't see anyone walking around. He pointed at a large black car, a newer model. She got in. The car was warm and smelled like the man who took her out of that house. She realized that the car smelled better than she did. She heard someone calling out to him from a window.

"Casey! Casey! Where are you going?"

He started the car. She was silent for a long time. She didn't know what to say.

"Who are you?"

"Until tonight, I've been Casey Dunn. It doesn't matter, really. I got you away from the bad guys. We've been searching for you for a week and a half, Doctor Brennan. I'm taking you out of here. I'm getting in touch with Scotland Yard and we will get you in protective custody."

"Well, I have a job to do. I'm on a dig in Thurso. I need to get back."

"No dice. Thurstow will have to wait."

"Thurso."

"Yeah, like I said."

"So it's Casey Dunn?"

"Yep."

"When will you take me back to Thurso? I mean, I appreciate what you have done for me, but once I report it to the authorities, I need to go back to work."

"Only place you are going is back home, Doc."

"I thought that secret agents were supposed to be smooth and persuasive. You are quite abrasive."

"You don't know me."

"I don't even know your name. And don't call me Doc. It's doctor."

"Well then, Doctor Brennan. I am not a secret agent."

"Then what are you?"

"A concerned party."

She slumped in the seat, her exhausted attempt to regain a little control futile at the moment. Dunn flipped a switch and a police scanner began transmitting crackled messages. She listened intently, because she didn't want to talk with him, at least right now.

"Units fourteen and four, reporting to a known gang activity center. Constable reports five bodies in house, all dead. Male and female seen leaving the house, location presently unknown."

She looked at him. "Did you kill those men?"

He didn't look away from the road. "Mission essential."

The tone in his voice was somber, a little uneven. A part of her wanted to be stunned, revolted even. But she wasn't. He'd taken her out of that place, she had no complaints.

"Is there a place… I can clean up, maybe, you know, food?"

"In a while, but we have some distance to cover. I'm pretty certain I blew my cover back there. Time is not on our side. That whole damned block is Red Hand. We have to get out of here."

"Red Hand? What is that?"

"They used to be a branch of the IRA…they splintered off over political differences. Red Hand is politically volatile and known for violence. They branched out into kidnap and ransom schemes. When it pays it pays very well. Long story short, I just cut their balls off and everyone with an open window saw me do it."

She paused a moment, and the details fell into place for her. "I had a ransom?"

"At the end of the first week, it was twenty million. Yesterday it was forty five."

"I don't even know how to quantify that. I'm…it's…this is a lot. Where are we going now?"

"Safe house about three hours from here. Get you clean clothes, a shower and food. Maybe you should rest."

"I'm afraid to sleep. I don't want to wake up in that house again."

"You won't. I promise."

"Thank you, Casey. You saved my life."

There was sincerity in her voice he wanted to ignore. To pretend it just didn't exist. He'd blown a year and a half of undercover work in a few minutes. He'd killed four Red Hand soldiers and outright executed their captain, the man who'd been getting ready to rape Brennan. His name was Riley, and he was a complete animal. It was just a matter of time before Riley murdered another young woman. Not six weeks ago, he'd slaughtered a call girl in a motel room in Limerick. She was nineteen years old, and he'd gutted her like a wild animal and left her entrails all over the room.

The world was a better place without Patrick Riley.

**Ballycastle, Ireland, the safe house**

When he'd first started the assignment, he'd rented out an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Ballycastle. It was three hours out from Belfast in good weather. He made it in two and half. Once he pulled into the slender stone driveway, he gently squeezed her shoulder. She woke up, but she didn't really wake up. He walked her into the house, laid her on the old battered sofa in the living room and made a fire. He covered her with a blanket he'd bought. He took a fast walk around the house. He pulled the car into the old stables, emptied what little he kept in there, and wiped it for prints. He covered it with a tarp and locked the door. He took a short walk around the perimeter, gun in hand.

She was fast asleep. He walked into the pantry and retrieved a cookie jar. At the bottom of the jar was a cell phone wrapped in aluminum foil. Same model he owned presently. He switched the batteries. The phone came to life, and he thumbed in a number long committed to memory. He left a simple message. "Seeley Booth, process number two-two-seven-zero-five."

The phone rang seven minutes later.

"Booth?"

"Hi Mom. I'm sending you some flowers. Should be there in the morning. Roses and tulips, and a sunflower. I hope you like it."

"Thank you."

The line went dead. But he had delivered the message. _Cover blown. Incoming. Civilian in tow_.

Brennan opened her eyes, more dreaming than awake. She smiled broadly. "Booth. Your name is Booth."

"Sure is. Get some rest, Doc."

As the morning light gathered across the fields, they both slept.

She woke up about three hours later. Booth was still asleep. She walked around the house, still numb, still tired. But she felt better. She found a pair of sweats in the bedroom, and thick towels. She left her old clothes at the door of the bathroom. The water pressure was good, and the heat felt even better. She washed her hair with his cheap shampoo. Carefully, she examined her bruises and scrapes and felt the loose tooth at the back of her mouth where that son of a bitch had slapped her. She felt relief at being rescued, but anger and resentment at being so powerless. She sat down in the bathtub, letting the water run over her. She hadn't felt like this in years, not since the state orphanage in Illinois a lifetime ago. She hated this feeling. Her chest felt tight and it seemed like the world was taking everything from her. She shook silently, tears washed away by the hot water. She could still smell his breath, like rotting meat. She fought back bile rising in her throat. She was not a thing to be sold or ransomed. She scrubbed hard with the soap.

She toweled off and dressed. Booth was in the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee filled her nose. He was taller than she thought. She wondered what his first name was. She didn't think she was getting it out him any time soon. He wore a thick fisherman's sweater and battered blue jeans, rather than the pressed suit and tie he did as Casey Dunn.

"Good morning, Doc. Look, I have to discuss some travel arrangements with you. We are going to eat and then we are packing out. I'm taking you to Dublin, and from there, Scotland Yard will handle things. Do you like cinnamon rolls? They come from a can, but it's about all that I had. We'll get better food closer to Dublin. Are you feeling better?"

"I'd be feeling better if I was going back to Thurso. Look, I appreciate everything you have done for me, I do. But can you understand how powerless I feel? How this is? I have no choices here. I've always had choices. I'm stuck in this spot, and there isn't anything I can do. I do not like being a victim."

He put his coffee down. "Fine, then. Let me tell you something. You survived Patrick Riley, which is a lot more than some women. The man was an animal, and you lived through it. You say you have no power? I'd say you have all the power in the world. You have to live. You have to think about all those girls, those young women, like Moira Caswell in Limerick. He gutted her like a hunter does a deer."

Booth didn't know the extent of what Riley had done to her. He didn't know the right thing to say. Brennan paused. She made eye contact. She was hurt and she was angry. Booth had a good sense of time and place, and right now was not the time or the place to tell her that she was beautiful when she was mad.

"That puts things…in perspective. You are right, but I'm not ready to deal with all this just yet. How long to Dublin?"

"Three, maybe four hours."

"So… cinnamon rolls?"

She ate slowly and drank her coffee the same way. She bit into the first one, still warm from the stove. Her smile was gracious. And, Booth thought to himself, stunning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Breakfast, the safe house**

They finished eating. Booth made it clear that he intended to travel light. He took a jacket and a Thermos full of coffee. He looked around the house. He didn't like leaving like this. Maybe in a few years, if things were different, he'd come back to this place. But for right now, they were bound for Dublin.

"Listen Doc, I know I don't have much for clothes and all. I think we can work something out once we get to Dublin."

"Are we going to the police there? I mean, why to Dublin?"

"I have a contact there, Jimmy Donnelly. Jimmy is in MI5. He's not quite my control officer—he's more like my kill switch."

"Kill switch?"

"If the shit hits the fan, Jimmy can call it quits. He won't be happy to see me, but he's pleased as punch you are alive."

"I meant to ask you something anyway. How did you know I was there?"

"One of Riley's boys, Cook, he has a big mouth. We went drinking that night and he talked all about it. Said Paddy had a girl holed up in one of his places. I put two and two together. I knew that Paddy Riley had something to do with your disappearance, but I didn't know what the connection was because he usually doesn't get directly involved."

Brennan paused a moment. "Why with me then?"

Booth's face became placid. "Well, there was a big price tag for you… Riley might have been a lot of things, but he was careful in his planning. They also knew that if they didn't get the price they wanted, he'd make an example of you."

She paled, shuddering slightly. She knew it would be sometime before she got over the bruises outside, but she had no idea how long it would take to get past her fear or her anger.

"So you weren't ordered to come for me, you just made the decision?"

"I don't call that a decision. I wouldn't have it. See, Uncle Sam had no intention of paying them off, and your Jeffersonian people can't just lay hands on that kind of money without serious problems. They tried. They even got most of it. But the long and the short was, even if the Red Hand got paid, you were dead."

"Are you in trouble for all this?"

His mouth curled at the corners. He shook his head slowly. "Yeah, I am. But I've been in a lot worse than this. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than get permission, right?"

She'd never heard that phrase before, but her eyes widened slightly with understanding. "Oh, I see – you do what you want and then confess to it, like a Catholic giving confession and getting absolution, right?"

His half smile widened. "Something like that, yes, but maybe you should keep that to yourself. Jimmy is a practicing Catholic."

"What about you? I noticed a rosary on the wall in your room."

"It's not mine. Choir Boy Booth was a long time ago. The place came furnished. So hey, let's get on the road."

**Road Trip to Dublin, Ireland**

Booth offered her a rain coat. She took it obligingly. It was cold and damp out, misty rather than rainy, but the rain would come soon enough. The car was an older domestic model. While she had enjoyed the comfort of the big black whatever it was he drove, she noted this car was far more innocuous. By din of being bland, they would be invisible. They'd been on the road for several minutes before either of them said anything at all.

Booth asked her if she wanted to share a cup of coffee, since the Thermos only came with a single cup. She poured slowly.

"So it's forensic anthropology, right? Tell me about that."

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's what I'm not doing right now. I'd give anything to be in an examination room right now, miles away from all of this. I could forget about it…space it… whatever. When I do my work, everything seems to vanish. What about you? I mean, you weren't always James Bond, right?"

"Bond was a Navy man. I was in the Army." She didn't seem to note the difference.

"I mean, you were never just like a fry cook or anything?"

"One day I was a quarterback with a promising career in football. I got injured and it scraped away my chances at a scholarship. I needed to go someplace, and the Army was right there. What about you?"

"I'm, well, my parents…I was in foster care for a few years in my teens. I always did very well in school and getting my first scholarship for anthropology was nothing. The forensic end of it was challenging and more opportunities to advance my education were laid out in front of me."

"So, that's a no to fry cooking then?"

"My brother Russ did. Before college, I spent a summer working in a university library as a page. Even though the job was simple, I loved it. I read a lot."

"Do you read much now?"

"Not really. It isn't that I don't like to, I just don't have a lot of time, usually."

"I can understand that. Pretending to be an Irish mobster will keep you pretty busy."

"I thought you were one of those Red Hand people."

"Casey Dunn is an associate of the Red Hand, but he's not a member per se. He's much more closely associated with organized crime in Belfast. Related, but not the same."

"How did you end up with this assignment anyway? I'd think that CIA types were more likely to go the Middle East, Africa, and like that."

"Well, there is only so much that I can tell you and so much that I know. Sadly, neither of those are great fonts of knowledge at the moment. And who said anything about the CIA?"

"So, when you were calling your mother earlier, that was Jimmy?"

"I thought you were asleep. I can't discuss that."

"I only caught snippets. Your first name is Lee, I think."

He was a little exasperated. A lot of his work and his life depended on his ability to keep secrets. His immediate family knew things, but they didn't know everything. The good doctor here was chiseling away. He found himself wanting to tell her, tell her more than just his name, but he held back. It didn't do for him to be telling her personal information. It was unprofessional.

"Seeley."

"An interesting name. Is that a family name?"

"I don't think so. Where does Temperance come from?"

"I don't know."

The conversation wavered. The Irish countryside rolled out in front of them. Brennan stared out the window. At least for now, this was all she was going to see of the British Isles. She wanted to know why she wasn't allowed to go to Thurso.

"Why can't I resume my work? My work visa is good for six months initially."

"Your work visa has been cancelled. I don't know why. Something about security measures- they don't want you to get abducted again."

"I'm more capable than that. I'd be looking out for it."

"Listen ... it's not like anyone thinks of you as unable. Last year, Red Hand out in Cork kidnapped a former SAS commando. He didn't come back."

"I take it SAS is some kind of special soldier?"

"Yeah ... SAS is the British version of an Army Ranger. Look, if one of those guys didn't come back, you are doing just fine."

"I can still go to Thurso. I'm very handy with firearms. I dated a firearms instructor at one point. He told me I was a natural. All I had to do was make my first kill and I'd get my bones, like a gangster."

"Well, listen here, Bones. Before you go off making that first kill, let's get you to Dublin."

She laughed half heartedly. "It's not that I want to kill anyone, I didn't mean it like that. Well, honestly, I'd have liked to have killed Riley." Her voice wavered.

"I can understand that. So much in fact, I capped his ass myself." His tone was upbeat, and there was a smile around the corners of his mouth. Almost but not quite. He was trying to change the conversation.

She poured another cup of coffee. The heat washed over her loose tooth and she reminded herself to get to a dentist soon. She watched him silently. He was close to her age, just a handful of years older. She liked that when he spoke to her, even when driving, he looked at her. His eyes were what Angela called puppy dog eyes, which she had told Angela was not biologically possible, but she now understood what that meant. Under better circumstances, she could easily be fond of this man.

"He and some of the others … they did things to me."

"I know. There aren't words to tell you, not that convey that feeling. The only thing I can offer is that no one is going to hurt you again."

The countryside faded into city, and just as the rain cleared off and the sun came out, they were in Dublin. Booth checked his phone.

"Change of plans. We are going to Jimmy's house."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure, but if it's at his house, it's off the record. Something he doesn't want everyone to know."

**Home of Jimmy Donnelly**

Booth took a highway exit toward a suburban area. The homes were nice if uninspired, and the farther they got in the nicer the homes got. Jimmy lived in a single level home, whitewashed with a nice brick driveway. She followed Booth in. Jimmy, a squat built man of about fifty, opened the door for them, and motioned them toward the back of the house. He walked into an open kitchen, with a well cared for if well beaten wood floor. The room smelled of roasting meat and vegetables. She let her nose fill with the scent. She was hungry.

Jimmy leaned against the counter and took a short puff from a stub cigar in an old porcelain ashtray.

"Here it is, young man. Miss Brennan here has been declared dead."

Booth and Brennan looked at each other. She sat down in a chair. She felt sick. "Why?"

"My understanding is, someone at the Jeffersonian sold you out to the Red Hand. Far as anyone knows, you were abducted and murdered by Casey Dunn in the wee hours of last night or early this morning."

"How do they know I was murdered if there isn't a body?"

Booth interjected. "That's sort of my specialty. Dunn makes people disappear."

She felt dizzy and hot. She was going to be sick. "Someone sold me out?"

"That looks like the case, yes. Regardless, you will be returning to the states. Once you arrive, you will be going into protective custody for a while. I don't know a lot more than that."

"This is ridiculous! I want my life! What is this? You just decide?" She stormed out the back door. Booth moved to follow.

"Give her a minute." Donnelly said.

Booth squared his shoulders and straightened his back. "So what is the plan from here?"

"It's like this, boyo. Casey Dunn is a wanted man, at least right now. So, I stayed up last night and did some paperwork." He handed booth two passports.

"There is a port at Galway. There is a thriving business that transports cars for well to do clients across the pond, so they can have their own vehicles on vacation. It takes about a week for the cars to get there, and then they are unloaded at a port in New York City."

Booth listened intently. "Are travel arrangements made, or do I need to make them?"

"Already done. Mister and Missus Summers will be leaving for NYC later this afternoon. The ship leaves port at six o'clock. It's just after noon now. I suggest you do some light shopping in Galway."

"Anyone know about this?"

"I don't know. Best to assume they do."

Jimmy handed him hastily scrawled directions. He checked his cooking, and puffed contentedly on the cigar. "You've done a good job here, Booth. Might not be what the company wants, but you did a damn fine job here."

Booth figured this was the best he was going to get from Jimmy in terms of a goodbye.

Brennan was walking around the backyard. Booth stepped outside. "Look, Bones, we need to talk."

She looked tired. "I'm sorry, Booth. This is a lot for me."

"I know it is. We need to go shortly. We can talk on the way. We have passage. It's designed to side step airports, where you and I could be recognized."

He explained the travel plans. "Look, Jimmy booked us as a married couple. It's not a perfect arrangement, but we can get separate quarters and all."

"I'm fine with that, thanks. Will there be a chance to do some shopping? I am not wearing the same pair of sweats for a week. Not happening."

"There is shopping in Galway, we just need to get there."

"Can I drive?"

"Do you know the way?"

"No, but I can GPS it or follow a map."

"We'll see, but for right now, I want to get clear of Dublin."

Booth started backing out carefully. Brennan saw a car coming down the street, faster than it should have been. It gained speed. The car crashed into the left rear side. Booth was moving before she had registered what was going on. He opened the car door, rolled out and came up, gun in hand. He pulled Brennan down into the seat and slid the gun into her hands.

"You know what to do, right?"

"I think so."

She clicked off the safety. Booth stood up straight, hands up. She hadn't realized it before, but Booth made a convincing Irishman. He walked around the car.

"An' what have we here, gents?"

Whoever was driving the car backed out. They didn't say anything. Brennan slid down in her seat and looked out the window. The car was backing up to charge Booth. She didn't wait. She aimed for the driver's side of the windshield. A gunshot cracked the morning air clean in two. Her ears rang. The car slid lazily forward, thumping into the left side again. Booth opened the passenger door and pulled someone out. There was a gun in his hand. Who ever the driver was, he was dead.

"Who?" He said.

"Get fucked!" was the only reply.

Booth brought his gun down across the bridge of the young man's nose.

"Let's try this again!" Booth cocked the trigger. "Who sent you?"

"Fuck off!"

The gun came down again, across a cheekbone. Brennan got out of the car. Booth looked at her and motioned her back toward the house. She kept her gun aimed in the general direction of the car. Something was wrong. The kid was stalling for time. Booth realized what was happening. He tossed the kid to the ground.

"Bones! Run!"

She sprinted toward the house and he followed. The blast wasn't big, not like you see in movies. It knocked Booth over. Jimmy stood in the doorway with a shotgun. He walked a few feet into the yard, screaming at both of them to get into the house. Brennan helped Booth to his feet, still moving. Jimmy saw the kid from the passenger side. He couldn't get a shot off, not without more attention. He reached into his robe pocket and produced a cell phone.

He was screaming orders into it. He walked back into the house. He grabbed keys off his counter and tossed them to Brennan. "Drive. Get the fuck gone. Now!"

They walked out into the slender garage. She looked into the street, gauging the amount of space to get out of the driveway. Booth kept looking . Jimmy owned a Porsche 911.

Booth smiled at her, the first real smile she'd seen out of the man. "Okay, so you can drive."

Despite everything, she smiled back at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**On the road to Galway…**

Booth waited for his ears to stop ringing. Car bombs are loud. Car bombs are messy. He got clear of the immediate blast radius, but he knew he'd be picking bits out of his hair and skin. He'd been thrown to the ground, and the wind knocked out of him. Brennan had run out to him from the house. They were in the car. She was driving fast, looking for the highway exit. He couldn't make out what she was saying. He pointed or tried to speak softly, but her ears were probably echoing sound too, and would be for a few minutes. She found the exit, and didn't hesitate. She had his main gun, but she didn't have one now, at least that he could see. His backup was still in hand. He checked the rounds he had left, slid the clip in, and sat quietly until his head stopped feeling hollow.

Brennan understood the silence. She'd been caught at the far end of an explosion before, on a dig in Mexico. An environmental group had bombed the site, claiming that a dig would interfere with a delicate ecosystem that supported indigenous wildlife. She had been spared the brunt of it, but it left her her head filled with hollow noise the rest of the day. She felt that way right now, but not as much as then. She put the gun Booth handed her on safety and shoved it under the seat. She'd never actually shot anyone before. She didn't know if she had killed the driver or if the car bomb had. She thought she'd feel worse, but in reflection, those two had been trying to kill her and Booth.

She didn't know where she was going, and the Porsche was a pre GPS model. Jimmy had a few CDs and a pair of thin leather driving gloves. She spoke plainly, hoping that Booth heard or at least understood what she was doing. She pulled off at an exit with a gas station. She was surprised that the station seemed closely modeled after fifties era American gas station. Maybe the resemblance was superficial and she was looking for comfort in it.

"I'm going to gas up. Do you know the way to Galway or do I need instructions?"

Booth replied slowly, in a low voice. "I got it."

His head was swimming and his back hurt, but he forced himself to get up and move. He washed up. His face and clothes were spattered with mud. Bits of glass were in his hair. He ran cold water through his hair and washed his face and hands. He ditched the fisherman's sweater. Too easy to remember if anyone asked. His t-shirt underneath was still clean. There was a heater in the car, he'd be fine. He knew the way to Galway. He'd been working a protection racket there last year. A part of him desperately wanted to ditch the Porsche and find something less recognizable. He knew the little shit that got away probably saw the Porsche leaving Jimmy's driveway.

Brennan finished pumping the gas. Booth paid, and got a couple bottles of water.

He made a motion for the keys. She tossed them to him. A part of her worry dissolved. Booth was fine. She wasn't saying anything about it, but she liked the way he looked in his white t-shirt. The jeans and shirt look had never been a favorite of hers exactly, but Booth wore it very well. She noted he carried more muscle on his frame than the suit he wore as Casey Dunn suggested.

Brennan had been driving the Porsche thoughtfully. Booth didn't. They made it back to the highway, and he sped. He handled the car calmly and efficiently. He knew what he was doing. Brennan wanted to ask if she had killed that man. It didn't worry her, not precisely, but she wanted to know. It wasn't something she was proud of, but she didn't hate herself for it either. She sipped water, and tried to be as casual as she knew how to be.

"Booth, did I kill the man driving that car?"

At first he didn't respond. A moment later, he glanced at her. His face was serious. "You did what you had to do, but the answer is no. He was trying to get out of the car when the bomb blew. His name was Frankie Carrigan, from Ballymena. I knew him. Believe me, if you hadn't shot him, he'd have killed everyone there. Frankie talked with cops after a job he did out in Limerick a couple of weeks ago. He knew this was coming."

"It's as simple as that with these people? You talk, you die?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

"Very well then. I just wondered if it had been me that did the job."

He smiled at her, warmly. "What you wanted to know is if you earned your bones?"

She paused a moment. Was he teasing her?

"I guess so, yes."

"Well, I'd say you can call that a confirmed kill."

"I don't like thinking of it like that. I do believe that some people need to die, or even deserve it, but I am not the law."

Booth looked out at the road. "It's been my experience that when someone is trying to kill you, law isn't the question. It's survival. You won. Call it a day."

"Is that how you got through the Army?"

"Sometimes."

"Is that how you get through the CIA?"

It was meant to be conversational, but Booth avoided questions like this religiously. His jaw tightened a moment. It occurred to him that she already knew more than she should. Not that it mattered now. He'd get her home, take a vacation, and then get on to his next assignment. He resigned himself to just be honest with her.

"Okay, I am going to explain how this works, but once and only once. I don't work for the company, never have. On paper, I'm an analyst with the North Atlantic Media Group. According to that paperwork, Seeley Booth has been sitting on his ass analyzing things in an office in Devonshire for the better part of two years. His rent gets paid each month, he sends packages out to his brother every so often and on rare occasions, he spends too much shopping online."

Brennan considered this a moment. "So, the North Atlantic Media Group isn't real?"

"Nope, they sure are. My existence in Devonshire is not."

"And you seem comfortable with this; like that kind of deception is perfectly normal."

"It's a tool of the trade, Bones. Just a part of the job. This way, when the time comes that I need to go away, Seeley Booth can end his employment with North Atlantic and move back home. He and Casey Dunn will never have done as much as seen each other."

Brennan's eyebrows came up. "Okay, I got it. It's your cover, right? Don't take this the wrong way, but this gets more spy novel by the moment. What next, do you get a martini and drive an Ashton Kutcher?"

Booth chuckled. "Aston Martin. Bond drives an Aston Martin."

"Whatever it is. How long until Galway?"

"Another hour or so. We are stopping at a mall there to get some clothes. It's a good place, I moved jewelry through there." The corner of his mouth curled upward, a smile that never quite made it there.

She shook her head, smiled wearily, and looked back at him. "I think there is a part of you that is going to miss Casey Dunn."

"It's not that. It's… look, I had a chance to do some good, believe it or not. I mean, yeah, I moved jewelry through there, and I made a lot of money at it. I took most of it and donated it to a state run orphanage in Belfast. Kids that don't normally get Christmas, they got it. The man that I rent the house in Ballycastle from, his wife spent several years of her life in one of those damned Magdalene laundries. I pay him for the house, in fact I overpay him, and he uses that money for her...therapy."

"Therapy? You say it like it's a dirty word, and under normal circumstance, I couldn't agree more. I don't value psychology much, but I've been told that it does have its place as a therapeutic tool."

"Look, have you ever heard of a Magdalene laundry?"

"I'm familiar with the basic concept, yes. Young woman that were considered undesirable for whatever reason were sent to them. The living conditions ranged between poor and horrible. They were often mistreated and abused. There are a number of documentaries on this topic available."

"She was sent there in her teens because she screwed around with a neighborhood kid and got pregnant. She was there for three years before her mother left her father and took her out. Her name is Moira. Paul, her husband, we did some talking and drinking one night. He told me that he loves her more than life itself, and even though they have never consummated the marriage because of the shit that happened to her there, he'd do anything for her. He used that money to send her to a therapist. He's never put it into words exactly, but he and his wife consummated their marriage of thirty years about ten months ago."

"Well, in today's culture, many marriages are sexless. In fact…" Booth waived a hand and cut her off.

"It's not about the sex. It's about helping people. I mean, yeah, it's great that Paul is getting laid finally, but it's a lot more important that his wife is seeing herself as a complete person."

"I didn't mean any offense. In fact, it's highly commendable that you do these things. Moreso that you do them covertly. No one will ever know the good that Casey Dunn did but Seeley Booth."

"That's the idea, Bones. Hey, did you grab your gun from under the seat before we left the gas station?"

"No, it's still there."

Booth shifted in his seat, intently watching his rearview. He handed Brennan his gun, which he'd tucked into the seat beside him. He spoke calmly. His voice was tense, but his tone was low. He looked irritated.

"We have company. They will try to shoot us or run us off the road. They get too close; you shoot for the tires or the driver's window, just like you did earlier."

She took the gun and clicked the safety off. Booth shifted gears. He looked at her, half smile and half smirk. "Let's see what the Porsche can do."

He turned the wheel sharply, and accelerated. The muscles in his arms corded. He started weaving through the lane, dodging cars, sometimes just barely. Brennan felt her heart beating faster. Booth was driving fast. A large black SUV was switching lanes as well, but not as fast as the Porsche. Booth handled it in a way that suggested not only was he familiar with driving it, but he knew a thing or two about driving like this.

She kept the gun in hand. She had no idea how to shoot from a moving vehicle. She and Booth bumped together a couple of times when the car whipped from one lane to the next. They were putting the SUV behind them. She hoped they could do this. If she had to shoot the car, innocent people might get hurt. Booth seemed aware of that. They cleared a grouping of traffic near an exit, and Booth picked up speed. A few minutes later they were on a stretch of highway, going over a hundred miles an hour. Brennan reflected that if they were not getting chased and in possible danger of death or severe injury, she might enjoy this.

Booth's face had been a placid, almost eerily calm. He slowed down. He looked at her, and worry creased his brow. "Those guys were amateurs and that is part of why I lost them. I think they were a decoy. This isn't over."

"You think we'll see them again before Galway?"

"Not if we ditch the Porsche, at least for a while."

"I thought the Porsche was an essential part of the disguise?"

"It is - we just need to vanish for a little bit. Not long, just an hour or so, make them think we went somewhere else."

"How are we going to do that?"

"We take the next exit, and we find a place to hide for a little while."

"Like hide and go seek?"

"More like hide and stay the fuck away."

She laughed. She hadn't heard Booth curse.

The Porsche slid off the next exit. It looked like farm country- there was thick plains of grasses, and large homes in the distance. Some of the homes were in use and some were not. Booth came to a slow crawl. He pulled into the lot of one of the homes, and drove around the back. The grasses were long and untended. He parked the Porsche and got out. Brennan followed.

"You know this place, I take it."

Booth nodded. "I was going to buy this at one point while I was working out here in Galway. It's a half hour out, but it's quiet. And no one comes out here. The owner lives in Scotland. He's only here in the summer time. I don't have the keys or anything, but no one is coming and looking for us here."

"Aren't you cold?"

The skies had turned grey the closer they got to Galway. Brennan felt how much colder it was. Booth opened the trunk of the Porsche. He knew that Jimmy was the type to plan. He found a long coat in tan, and a wind breaker. He handed the light jacket to Brennan. He pulled on the long coat. It was a couple of sizes too big. He found a cigar sealed in a tin tube in the pocket. He showed it to Brennan.

"For later." He smiled broadly. "When we get to the states."

Brennan's lips curled up. "My goodness, Mister Booth. Is there any bad habits you don't have?" She was trying her best to use an Irish accent, which to Booth sounded like she might as well have been from India.

Booth measured that comment a moment. "Sure. I have excellent hygiene and I'm not given to lechery."

She played along. "A shame that. Maybe I was looking for a dirty lecher."

His eyebrow arched. "I was wondering about that... did Riley... Well, you know- I mean, I got the impression that is what he was about to do when I walked in there…" he trailed off. His tone was unexpectedly serious.

Her brow furled. "Booth… I thought I was going to die. A part of me knew it… just knew that at some point, they were going to kill me. Was I violated? Yes, I was. But I lived through it. When I look at having survived, it makes the abuse, the hurt, seem smaller. It's there, it's not gone… but it's... less. And I have to admit; knowing that Riley is dead helps me to sleep better."

He nodded silently. If he were to make a list, there were several families that would sleep better knowing that son of a bitch was gone.

"I know this time hasn't been easy. If you need to talk, I'm here."

He squeezed her hand gently. She squeezed back.

His face lit up, which she took to mean he was changing the topic. "So, I have some good news. Once we get to the mall in Galway, our shopping budget is stunningly generous. See, they can't really track me beyond a certain point once I leave the country. So, with the hour or two we will have for shopping feel free to get whatever you want, courtesy of Casey Dunn."

She smiled at him. "Of all the men to offer me an all expense paid shopping trip, it's a secret agent who drives a Porsche. I couldn't write this, no one would believe it."

Booth opened the passenger door. "Believe it."

By the time the rain started coming down, they were on the road to Galway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Eyre Square area, Galway, Ireland**

Booth had spent a few minutes finding a place to park, in a narrow alley just outside the tourist end of the shopping district. The rain was pattering on the rooftop. He opened the door for her. As they came walking down the alley toward the cobbled street, Booth paused a moment.

"Listen. We will be using the smaller boutiques near here instead of the stores located inside the mall. I know this limits your selection some, but I know a couple of places, if you want, or we can go where you want to go. So long as it's right here."

"Well, you seem to have a considerable understanding of the area, so show me the way. But why no mall?"

"Tactical planning. We get seen, there isn't really anywhere to run, and there isn't a good place for a shootout in a mall, is there?"

They rounded the corner of the alley, and began moving up the length of the street. It was mostly two story buildings, old and well cared for. She guessed that some of them had probably been homes in years gone by. The street was narrow and cobbled. She could smell wood smoke. A few people were out, mostly running errands from the look of things. Booth looked around, calm but weary. He made his way to the right side of the street, and arrived outside the door of a shop with exceptionally nice trim. It was painted a dark but vibrant royal blue, with gold trim. The sign above the door showed what she guessed was a family crest- a blue shield in the same color, with two stars across the top, a chevron in the middle and a star at the bottom. The top of the shield had a stylized knight's helmet, and the whole thing was surrounded with blue and gold flourishes.

The sign read Monaghan's Finery.

"You know this place?"

"Yeah. I'm sort of the owner. Well, Casey Dunn is anyway."

"Why would an Irish mobster need a women's clothing store?"

"Good place to move product in and out of."

"Product?"

"Jewelry, electronics… whatever was on the truck."

"The truck?"

"Three times a week a shipment showed up here. It's probably best not to ask where it came from, or even where it went."

"So this isn't another make the world better with a little wrong doing thing, is it?"

"Kind of. Once the business end of things dried up here, I let Cassy run the store. As of this afternoon, she owns it."

"Cassy, who is she?"

"Cassidy Monaghan. That sign is her family's crest. They have operated the store in some form or another for a hundred years. Look at this framework- I helped to build it, painted it myself."

He ran his hands over the framework. Brennan didn't feel the need to say it. He was going to miss this. She examined her feelings. She concluded that Booth wanted a greater sense of permanence than what he had. She understood a part of that. Her sense of permanence was the Jeffersonian, but even that was in question now. She understood his quiet reluctance to leave. Booth felt safe here. Maybe not safe... um… familiar? She didn't know.

However, she strongly doubted that a covert operative working in organized crime and dealing with terrorists would describe his lifestyle as _safe._

She noted the quality of the work. She wondered if Booth had any training in carpentry.

The store was larger inside than she thought it would be. The place was two stories, snug, but not cramped. She was greeted by who she assumed to be Cassidy, who launched into a conversation with Booth about sales.

"Mister Dunn! Nice to see you! Is this your lady friend?"

"Yeah, she'll be takin' up my time for a while here. Listen girly, we need to cover a few salient details about the ownin' of the place."

Brennan looked at Booth. His accent was nearly pitch perfect. It was Irish without being provincial, not too close to England not too close to Scotland. Hearing him switch from his regular speaking voice to this one had given her an ability to hone in on his accent. Cassidy Monaghan was what Angela called an Irish milk maid. She was pretty but not gorgeous, with flawless skin and thick, curly red hair. The two of them sat at the counter, discussing quietly.

Brennan tended to her shopping. She found some underwear and bras, and a few shirts she liked. She found a night gown in silk, which was a creamy white color. Monaghan's also maintained a decent selection of shoes. She bought a new pair of calfskin boots. Her final purchase there was a new coat. It was stark white with a navy scarf included. She loved it.

Booth stood with Cassy. She was hugging him. Tears were in her eyes, and she was smiling. He handed her a slip of paper, smiled broadly and walked out the door. He took a photo with his cell phone of the storefront.

Brennan didn't know a lot about reading people. She wanted to ask him a lot of questions, but again found herself holding back. She knew there was things he couldn't tell her, maybe just wouldn't tell her. Despite that, she wanted to be closer to him. She trusted him. She liked him.

She felt safe around him, and safe was something she needed right now. She still hadn't had time to process what was going on, not really. She'd gotten so used to compartmentalizing parts of her life that this seemed like just another thing. Neatly compressed into one shoe box in a closet full of shoe boxes, to be taken out when she had the time and reason. It seemed to her everything was like this. Her relationships, her work, even the very personal things she knew she needed to work on, like the phone calls and birthday cards from her brother. She hated Russ, had since he took off when their parents left. He left her behind, and in the years that followed she hadn't made time for him, not once.

She focused on what was in front of her.

The rain had cleared off altogether and sun lit the slender avenue. Booth pointed at an outdoor clothing outfitter. He bought a pile of denim for both of them, a leather jacket for himself, t-shirts and underwear, and socks with horizontal gold and burgundy stripes. He bought a couple of long sleeve shirts. He also bought a bundled blanket set, explaining that ships don't always have the most and the best in terms of bedding. He bought one for her as well.

"How do you know about what ships have available? Have you taken this cruise before?"

"I spent a week underway with my brother once, what the US Navy calls a tiger cruise. I can't speak for this vessel at this place in time, but that week was nothing to write home about."

"Tell me about your brother."

Booth let out an exasperated breath. "My brother is…something else. Jared is a good man, he is, but we are two completely separate people. He likes the water, I like the land."

"Well…is he like you… a Navy SEAL or something?"

"No, not even close. Jared started as a helicopter pilot and made his way into naval intelligence."

"So, he works in government intelligence and he has no idea what you do?"

"Not really, no. Two separate ends of the spectrum, Bones."

He rounded a corner and pointed her toward a convenience store called Paddy's. They got what few bathroom items they could find. Booth checked his phone again.

"Are we okay on time? Do we need to get going?"

He thought a moment. "We have about an hour to get there. It takes about half that. You want a coffee?"

"Tea would be great, thanks."

They made their way slowly back to the Porsche. Booth kept looking around. Something was wrong, but he wasn't telling her. As they got closer to the car, a slender figure popped out from behind, a slender blonde man with a gun in hand. Another materialized at the end of the alley they had just entered from.

Booth put the bags down and put his hands up. The man from the front of the alley was closing in on them. Brennan stayed a step behind Booth. She wished she'd had her gun.

The slender blonde man pulled the trigger. A tinny, hollow sound bounced off the walls of the alley. Booth staggered but he didn't go down.

The blonde spoke. 'That is for my brother, fuckin' asshole." Booth staggered and fell, a bloody mass near his shoulder spreading. The slender blonde lit a cigarette.

Brennan kneeled near him, checking the wound. It wasn't fatal, but it probably hurt like hell. Booth pushed himself up against the side the car, and lumbered to his feet. "Johnny, wait a second. It doesn't have to go like this, you know."

It took Brennan a moment. Booth knew him. It was the same man that had been in the car with Frankie, evidently his brother. The man from the front of the alley, a thickly built bald man, stood next to him. He looked like a bodybuilder type. He had a large revolver in his hand as well.

"Listen here, Casey. It's goin' like this. I'm takin' her highness here with me. I'm leaving you with Bruno here. He has some questions about where the fuck you've been the last night or two, right Bruno?"

Bruno looked at Johnny, raised his left hand, and shot him in the head. Brennan was stunned. People were starting to gather at the front of the alley. Booth breathed deeply.

"Took you long enough."

The thick built man shrugged his shoulders. "Had to sell it. Are you gonna die?"

"Nope. Bones, this is Inspector Leo Nash, but to the Irish mob, he's Bruno Callahan. He's owed me a solid for a year now."

"You got your solid right here. Now snap off a few shots, I'll go running back to the car, and you and the good doctor here get moving."

"Thanks, Leo."

"And just by the by, where have you been, dickhead?"

"I found out where she was and it wasn't one of those waiting games. Not this time. Patrick Riley had her."

Leo smiled, which Brennan found to be chilling. "You know, this might not be your country, but you just did it a huge service. If you ever come back, I'd happily buy you a drink, but that would require me to know your fuckin' name."

"Not today, asshole. Just remember you owe me a drink."

"Bones, you want to do the shooting?"

Brennan grabbed Booth's pistol and fired off several rounds toward a wall. Bruno vanished around a corner. Booth handed the keys to Brennan. His hands were covered in blood. He grabbed Jimmy's first aid kit from the trunk and wadded up gauze which he stuck under his shirt.

"Let's go. I'll clean it up when we get onboard."

"Are you okay?"

"I will be. Let's go."

"I'm… that was… we have got to stop living like this."

Booth smiled uneasily, the seatbelt strap rubbing against his wounded shoulder. "Relax, Bones. After all, we're going on a cruise, aren't we?"

Under her breath she whispered "_Shoe boxes. More shoe boxes_."

"Huh? Did you just say something about shoes, Bones?"

"No, not at all."

Once she got Booth underway, she was getting some answers. She didn't care what there was that he could and couldn't tell her. They had both been nearly killed, separately and together, in the space of less than two days. She found the exit and followed the instructions to the parking area. The idea was to leave Jimmy's car there without it being loaded onto the ship. They gathered their bags. The skies began to darken more. There was a storm on the way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Aboard the S.S. Valentine, Atlantic Ocean**

The S.S. Valentine had been a shipping vessel in its best years. These days, it hauled cars across the Atlantic for well to do tourists and business people. The hull was painted a slowly fading hunter green, with the words Transatlantic Voyager emblazoned on the side in white. The cars were along the top deck, where they would be craned off upon arrival. Booth glanced out at the sea. The skies were getting dark fast. He came across the brow with Brennan, bags in hand. Check in was little more than pointing to a name on a list, and they were walking down a squeaky clean hallway toward a series of doors. Thiers was the last on the left. The young man that escorted them there explained that passengers were somewhat rare, but not unheard of. Their stateroom was a converted space, having started life as a dry goods room. This stateroom featured its own bathroom.

In her best moments, Brennan would have described the space as austere. At the moment, something about it was almost clinical. It was brightly lit and sterile white. The floor tiles were a highly waxed pale grey. There was a single bed attached to one wall, what Booth called a bunk. A small table sat in front of the bed with two chairs. A battered old leather sofa, a last minute decoration from the looks of things, sat against the opposite wall. The room smelled of fresh paint, cigarettes, and industrial cleaner. The overall effect was antiseptic.

Brennan began to unpack in the locker near the head of the bed. She found a kind of quiet ritual in it. She was uneasy but too tired to examine the shape of that unease. Booth took off his jacket and sat down at the table, first aid kit in hand. He peeled off the t-shirt he'd been wearing. His shoulder wasn't as bad as the amount of blood suggested. He examined it with professional detachment.

"Good thing ol' Johnny decided to hurt me instead of kill me outright. It's mostly a through and through. Took a little meat with it, but nothing I won't recover from. You much for stitches?"

"Like sewing an injury shut? No. I'm not that kind of doctor. I mean, with proper tools and time I could make a game attempt, but I couldn't promise anything."

"Just take a look then."

She leaned in close. Booth could feel her breath on his neck, a not expected but not unwelcomed sensation. Her fingers ran the width of the wound. "No stitches. A butterfly bandage should do the trick."

Booth screwed open a bottle of whiskey he produced from his bag. "Disinfect first." He took a long swallow.

Brennan looked through the first aid kit. She cut a few bandages, cleaned the wound with some antibiotic gel, and dressed it with the remaining gauze. She let her fingers linger on his shoulder a moment. She wouldn't tell him, but Booth was more simply fit for his job. His chest muscles alone drew her eyes. Despite the long hours in the underbelly of the suit and tie world Casey Dunn lived in, Booth had found a way to keep himself fit - quite fit. When she had looked closely at his wound, she had felt the warmth from him. For a lingering moment, she had wanted to touch his face, to run her hands down his chest.

She finished the dressing, and admired her work.

"Thanks, Bones. Tell you what. Dinner is on me tonight."

"I wondered about how we are going to eat. I understand there is a galley on board, but it is that a pay as you go kind of thing?"

"Mostly it's gonna be dine in. When we get done, we'll figure out a sleeping arrangement, but I think it's more or less settled. I get the couch, you get the bed. We can work out the rest later."

He opened a pack of t-shirts and pulled a fresh one on. Brennan finished her unpacking. She was not by nature obsessive, but something about making this space hers gave her a sense of comfort. Booth quietly pulled his jacket back on.

"I need to go find something a little more medicinal than whiskey. I need to be alert, and a half bottle of Glen Fiddich isn't going to do the trick. Do you like movies?"

"Depends on what it is, but yeah. Do you think we could watch a movie?"

"I don't know what they have and what they don't. I'll get some dinner together while I'm out. Unless I knock on the door, don't answer, okay?"

A part of her would have balked at the idea not two weeks ago. "Sure. In fact, if you don't mind, I'm going to clean up some."

"Wait a sec." He took out the automatic, checked the chamber, checked the clip, and clicked on the safety. "I'm sure everything will be fine, but if it isn't, you can make it so, you got me?"

She smiled. "See you in a while, Booth."

He left the gun on the table. His other gun had been left in the Porsche. He silently cursed himself for leaving it, but the more immediate need of getting Brennan on the ship had taken over. It wasn't like he couldn't take care of himself, but in two years as Casey Dunn it had been rare for him not to have a gun with him. The Irish mob tends to solve problems with frightening permanence, and he'd been absorbed into that culture. Maybe Brennan was right. Maybe he was too soaked up in being Casey Dunn. That would explain him running off at the mouth about his cover, his brother and frankly, ever letting her know he wasn't Casey Dunn to being with. It might have been easier to just leave her at the front of a police station.

But that wouldn't have gone well either. The authorities would find out, if they didn't already know, that Dunn had killed Patrick Riley. Then Brennan would have become a witness. The bounty already on her head would have tripled overnight, and Dunn would have been marked for dead by Red Hand affiliated police.

He didn't want to admit to himself that there was something about her he liked. He'd already broken so many protocols it was ridiculous. He'd abandoned his cover, killed several potential assets outright, and openly endangered a kidnap victim. Why? Because the moment he came into that room, he went haywire. He saw red. He knew what a monster Riley was. He knew what was happening the moment he walked into that house. They boys that worked for him didn't dare interfere with one of his "interrogations". Booth walked right into the room, which the bastard had been so arrogant as to leave unlocked.

He hadn't waited for Riley to do anything. He wasn't Han Solo. He shot first.

The galley was one deck down from the staterooms and toward the center of the vessel. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. It wasn't dinner time yet, not for an hour or so. The galley was painted an aging canary yellow and trimmed with white. There were five small booths and three long tables. He could smell coffee. He knocked on the door of the kitchen.

A young man opened the door. He was about the same height, but a hundred pounds more than Booth. His name tag said Brendan.

"Can I offer you assistance, sir?" He held out his hand for a shake. Booth delivered the Casey Dunn special - firm tight grip, no eye contact.

"Sure can boyo. I want to order dinner for me an' the wife, have it delivered to state room seven, say, an hour or so from now?"

"Can do, sir. I'll make the arrangements. How do you an' yer missus take steak? It's the special tonight. Chocolate mousse for dessert."

Booth considered this a moment. Hell, he didn't know. "One medium, one rare, thanks. All the trimmings and what not, too?"

"Of course. "

Booth paid for dinner right then and there. He'd had a fold of pound notes in his wallet. He peeled out a large note and handed it over. "And this stays as quiet as we can keep it, right?"

"Yes sir, signed, sealed, delivered."

The kitchen door breezed warm air thick with the scent of what smelled like soup. Booth thanked Brendan and made his way down the hall toward the lounge area. It was a large room filled with round tables and chairs, piles of assorted magazines, and a box of well worn board games. He found a deck of cards sitting next to an ashtray. They had a cardboard box filled with DVD's, which he understood to be a kind of honor system in terms of rentals. There were about fifty movies. Once they got well underway, these would vanish, so he picked the best he could find. There was a TV/DVD in the stateroom.

He knew he was making excuses not to go back to the room, but he knew that Brennan needed some quiet time, and a nice long hot shower. The ship didn't have a store or anything to speak of, but there was a sick bay.

He was working his way back to the room when he found it. The single medic working there was a man also named Brendan, who turned out to be the cook's father. He gave Booth a few packets of aspirin and a generic painkiller for the morning. The sick bay wasn't much to look at. It looked like an office almost, all cream colored walls and soft light.

She was moments out of the shower when he got back. She had on jeans and one of the blouses she had bought at Monaghan's. Her hair was pulled into a tight, clean, ponytail. The room smelled of soap and shampoo, and the air hung thick with the density of recent showering. She stood when he entered. Nervous? Excited? He wanted to ask, but thought better of it. He hung his jacket on the back of the chair.

"Okay Bones. Dinner in an hour. You look good, all fresh and cleaned up. You feeling better?"

"I am, yes. Uh, say, before dinner would you like a drink?"

She produced two plastic cups from the bathroom. Whiskey wasn't her favorite, but it would do. Booth waived her over to the table. He poured slowly. "It's all the booze we have for a few days, so let's enjoy a bit now and maybe have some for later."

He handed her a cup and held his own up. "To you, Doctor Brennan, for courage in the line of fire, survival in conditions that have killed commandoes, and for cleaning up pretty good."

She smiled. Booth had only seen her smile once or twice. A real, honest, toothy smile. He wondered why this woman was not a model. She certainly had the looks and the body - he pushed that from his mind. He was protecting an American victim of international terrorism.

A really pretty one.

She toasted him back. "To Seeley Booth, for courage in the line of fire, getting shot and walking away from it and for all the good things the world will never know you did."

He smiled back at her. "All in a day's work, Bones. All in a day's work."

The whiskey stung her throat. She wasn't used to the taste. She wondered if Booth was. She wondered what it tasted like on his lips.

"So, what's for dinner tonight?"

"Steak and potatoes, all the fixings. Chocolate mousse for dessert. I even scored some movies if you want."

"What did you get?"

"I found The Good, The Bad and the Ugly for starters."

"That's one of the Serengeti westerns, right?"

"Spaghetti western, Bones. Italy not Africa."

"Oh, okay. What else did you get?"

"I found a copy of the Breakfast Club."

"I think I've seen that. Its kids receiving detention, right? That would somewhat characterize parts of my high school experience."

"I think that's all of us, Bones. I was a little more Emilio Estevez than Judd Nelson, but I get it. I also got one other movie, called Get Carter."

"What is that about?"

"An English mobster whose brother gets killed. It's Michael Caine in Seville row suits kicking ass and taking names."

Booth sipped the last of his whiskey, turning the small cup over.

"Feels good just to relax a little doesn't it?"

Brennan shrugged her shoulders. "I'll tell you when I get there. By the way, do you know anything about the Jeffersonian?"

"In relation to your case, not really, no."

She finished the rest of her whiskey. It didn't go well with her toothpaste, but it felt nice going down. She faltered, unsure of what to say next. Booth rested his hand on hers. "I'll find out. I will. I promise. Until then, you want to watch a movie or play cards?"

He tossed the deck on the table.

"Do you know Texas Hold'Em?"

"Is that another movie?"

"Nope. It's the best way to play poker I know of." He held a chuckle back.

Her eyes brightened. "Okay, I'm game."

They were in the fifth hand when there was a knock at the door. Brendan held a large tray out, and then handed over a carafe of coffee with two cups. Brennan chose the medium steak. They were hot from the grill and delicious. They were served with baby red potatoes in a reduced garlic butter sauce with green beans and flaky warm biscuits.

They finished dinner in no hurry, eager only to savor the incredible dinner. Plates stacked neatly, they proceeded to the coffee and mousse.

She spoke before he did, her eyes searching him for something, and answer only he could provide.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

He weighed that comment a moment. They were sharing sleeping quarters. She'd already seen him with no shirt on. Sure, why not?

"Yeah, shoot."

"How does a nice man like you end up in the business you are in?"

"I'm not that nice. "

"Maybe good man is a better term. You… do these incredible things for people you barely know, and act like it's just a polite gesture. Most people aren't like that, even at the Jeffersonian."

"Well, my Pops, he taught me that when you go some place, you leave it better than you found it."

"Even if you are pretending to be a mobster?"

"Even then. Look, while I was out running around, I had some time to think. I realized that you were right in a way. I got a little buried in being Casey Dunn."

She sipped at her coffee. "Who else have you been?"

He paused a moment. For a sliver of time, a precious neutron in the connections of the whole universe, he wanted to tell her everything.

He shrugged. "The point is I'm always me. Where ever the American flag casts a shadow, that's where I am. Who I am right then, it doesn't matter, because the result is always the same."

She was more satisfied with the answer than she wanted to be. Whoever he was, Seeley Booth was a patriot.

"Do you know who you are going to be next?"

"I know that in this place and time, I am a deep cover operative in deep shit. But that can wait until I get back the states. For now, I'm here. For you."

His hand covered hers. He didn't mean for it to happen. He meant it as a reassuring gesture. Her fingers laced with his. Her voice was lower when she spoke. "I like that very much."

He waited for her to slip away. She didn't. She sipped the last of her coffee.

He cleared his throat. "You up for a movie?"

"Yes. How about the Michael Caine one?"

They sat down on the battered leather sofa and put in Get Carter. Brennan sat at the one end, feet curled underneath her. Booth sipped water from the sink. This was close quarters. Too close. If he didn't have to go before some kind of professional review board, he'd be stunned.

She was out before the movie was over. He tossed a blanket over her, and stretched out on the floor. It was better for his back. This way, if she woke up and wanted to lie down, the bed was right there. He flicked off the television and started letting the darkness and the gentle rocking motion of the boat consume him. He was tired. His shoulder ached. He wondered where he left the aspirin, but was too tired to look for it. He knew he'd be hurting in the morning either way. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something other than the dull pain he was feeling. His thoughts drifted back to Brennan, he smiled and let sleep take him.

In the darkness of the stateroom, a blood curdling scream escaped Brennan's throat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Booth & Brennan's State Room - S.S. Valentine**

Casey Dunn had spent two years living alone. He didn't entertain guests often, and when he did, they didn't spend the night. Her scream stunned him, filling the small room. He made it to his feet and fumbled for the light. Brennan's hair was pasted to her forehead. She thrashed around on the couch. He didn't know exactly what to do, but he knew better than to touch her. She kicked her arms flailed around, and between screams, she cried out like she was being hurt. She said something once, but it was indecipherable.

"Bones! Bones! Wake up!"

Nothing.

He thought about snapping off a round into the ceiling, but quickly thought better of it.

"Temperance! You have to wake up now!"

Her eyes opened slowly. She'd been dead asleep and this was the first time she'd had a chance to sleep. He hated waking her, but it didn't do for the blushing bride at the end of the hall to be screaming in the middle of the night. People would come knocking if it went on too long.

Her body tensed, and she shot to her feet. She looked around like she didn't quite know where she was. She ran her hands through her hair. She straightened, wiping her face, which was soaked with sweat and tears. Her body racked, and she began to cry. She sat back down on the couch. He poured her a drink of water, which she took and sipped slowly. Her breaths became steadier. Her eyes were red. He didn't know how to read this situation, not entirely. When she'd come up off the couch, she was coming up like she was getting ready to defend herself. He'd seen her left foot drop back a half step, and her hands came up in a defensive gesture. Did Brennan have any training in martial arts? He didn't think so.

She drank the water slowly. Her voice was uneven, just a bit gravelly from the screaming.

"I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry about. Look, when I first got out of the Army, I spent a few nights at the VA hospital myself getting evaluated. It took me half a year before I could talk about what I saw… and the nightmares, still come sometimes. Are you okay?"

"I am now. This… this hasn't happened in a long time. I'm sorry. Did I hit you?"

"No, you didn't. Stop apologizing, Bones. We all have things, you know?"

"No, I don't. I don't know. I'm… this way. I've been this way for a long time, and the one time I went to see a psychologist was while I was in high school and he told me to get over it."

"Wait a second… high school? You mean all this, it didn't, you know, just hit home? With the abduction and everything?"

"It's… yeah it has. You just saw it happen. I just… I got really hot and it was dark and it took me back to a place where I didn't want to be."

Booth considered this a moment. Brennan wondered what kind of choices he was going to make. For a second, she thought he was thinking about going to another room. She felt a shiver of cold. Just the sweat drying, she told herself.

"Here's an idea. I'm going to turn down the vents in here a little bit and let the room get a little cooler. I'm going to hang a sheet between the bed and the couch, and let you get some room to relax a bit. They turn up the heat at night as we really get out into the water, so the heat we'll have to learn to deal with. You got some bedclothes and all, right?"

"I did, yes."

"Well, you can go change in the bathroom or I can wait in there for a moment while you change. You'll feel more relaxed."

"I think I'll take that offer. In fact, give me a few minutes. I'm going to shower again."

"Go for it."

A moment later, the water came on. Booth didn't find anything he could hang a sheet from. He looked around the room, and settled on using the corner of a vent above the bed, and wrapping the other end around the end of a light fixture. It was clumsy but good enough for the night. He wondered what the hell it was that happened to her that caused this, but it was a case of wrong time and wrong place. If he prodded he might aggravate the problem rather than soothe it. He felt the temperature in the room dip a bit; the closed vents letting the place cool off. He didn't realize how warm it had really been. The thermostat in the room read it was eighty degrees in there, and being buried under a blanket probably hadn't helped Brennan at all. He realized he hadn't bought pajamas when they were shopping. He figured they'd have more space. Boxers would have to do. In fact, he could sleep fine in pants.

Clutching a single pillow, he turned to lie down on the couch. It wasn't perfect, but he'd be just fine. A week, he told himself, one week and he'd be back in Philly for awhile with Pops. He'd eat bad food and catch up on movies, take in a game or two, and not have to think about Temperance Brennan. A part of him wanted to know. He only had her name and general description to work with when he'd heard the name to begin with. There was something about her, something untouchable and intangible, that he wanted more of. Pops would like her. Jared would too, but he didn't need the competition. _Holy shit_, he said softly under his breath, was he talking to himself about getting involved again? He took a deep breath and tried to imagine ice hockey, and everything he loved about it. Mostly, the Irish could give a fuck about ice hockey. The Irish mob even less. It would be nice to visit his favorite rink in Philly.

The bathroom door creaked open. She was freshly scrubbed. Her hair clung slightly to her scalp, near her shoulders. He'd turned off the light again, and she was surrounded by the pale yellow glow of the bathroom light. Booth found himself staring a moment. In the pale patina of light behind her, her skin was flawless. The night gown dipped down across her shoulders, and came all the way down to her calves. The room filled with the scent of fresh shower, but, was it… had she taken a cold shower? It didn't matter. She looked incredible, but he held fast to ice hockey. She clicked off the bathroom light and lay down stepping behind the makeshift curtain he'd placed between them.

Content that she was relaxed despite her wordlessness, he closed his eyes.

"Booth?"

He opened his eyes. Some nights, the sleep, it just wasn't coming.

"Yeah, Bones."

"Thanks for being so understanding. This is… embarrassing for me. I don't normally act like this, I really don't. I mean, it's been years since the last time, and I'm still feeling a little scared. It's just very powerful emotions from a long time ago."

"I get it, Bones. I mean, we all have demons. They have the term sleepless nights for a reason."

"Oh no, I could sleep quite well now, thanks. I'm just not sleepy yet."

"Did you want to watch another movie?"

"No thanks. But I was wondering, just curious, what it was that motivated your choice of careers. I mean, it wasn't as simple as just deciding, was it?"

"It was and it wasn't. I was in the Army at the time, trying to make a family. I'd been on again off again with this girl, and she got pregnant. I was in the process of getting out of the Army. I had… a lot of problems. I had started drinking and gambling, and my paychecks were getting blown left and right. So, she calls me one day, tells me she had an abortion, and she's moving on."

"What happened then?"

"For awhile, I self-destructed. I drank too much, way too much and did my level best to visit each and every gambling establishment I could find. So one night, I'm sitting in a local hang-out my brother and I sometimes venture to called The Mariner, when the father of an old Army buddy of mine approaches me. We have a long conversation about right and wrong and what the world needs. He gave me a night to think it over."

"And the next day you were doing this?"

A dry chuckle escaped from his throat. He knew he shouldn't be talking like this. But he did anyway. He wanted her to know him, to have a good idea of him. After this week, he might not ever see her again.

"Nope. I got on a twelve step program, and I got my finances in order. Two months later, I was in, and since then, I've been in. What about you? Why Forensic Anthropology?"

She pulled the curtain back to say something and it fell to the ground. She was sprawled out on the single bed, looking far more comfortable then she had been. He got up to fix it again.

"Don't worry about it, Booth. We're both adults here. It's not like a fourth grade slumber party."

He tossed the sheet on the bare leather of the couch. It felt cooler and smoother than the leather. Besides, it wasn't like they were naked or anything.

"So you were saying?"

"Well, I've always been bright, but people aren't really my forte. I found out that I had a knack for the sciences, and once I completed my degree in kinesiology, the door was wide open to pursue forensics. After that, I developed an interest in archaeology, but that interest bled over into anthropology, and before I knew it, I was graduating with triple doctorates and was a highly qualified and experienced Forensic Anthropologist. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I just fell into it. It took a lot of hard work. But that is why I'm the best."

"Is there anything else you want to do?"

"Not really, no. I've thought about writing novels before, but I don't seem to find the time."

"What would you write?"

"I don't know, mysteries, maybe. See, I have a wealth of technical information, but the people part of it, it just… it always gets complicated when you bring people into it."

"Seems that way doesn't it?"

"That's easy for you to say, Mister Irish mobster. I saw the way what's her name in the store lit up when you got there. I'm not like that. It isn't that I'm not attractive, but I've been told more than once that I am nicer to look at than listen to."

"I wouldn't say that. I can't see you, and I'm listening. Although in all fairness, you are a heart stopper."

_Son of a bitc_h. He'd just said that out loud.

"Tell me that I didn't say that out loud."

She laughed, a throaty laugh, an amused laugh. "You did, and… well yer not too bad yeerself Meester Doon." Her Irish accent was better than earlier, but still horrible.

Booth smiled in the dark. He admired her spirit. Not two days out from being held captive, she was making jokes.

At some point, they both drifted off to sleep. He woke up with a start when he realized she was sitting on the floor in front of the couch. She'd gathered her knees to her chest, and had her arms wrapped around them. He could hear the snuffle, like she'd been crying. He flipped the bathroom light on rather than the overhead. The light swam across the small room. Her face was streaked with tears. He sat down next to her, not knowing exactly what to do.

"Did you go back to that place again?"

She breathed heavily. "Sometimes, I don't think I ever left. I can still see that little room. Smell the must and the dirt. I feel his filthy fucking hands on me. I get scared and disgusted and fed up with myself for not fighting back when I should have."

"You were tied up. There was only so much that you could do. Like I told you, Riley was a first class…" she cut him off. "Not Riley. Yes, that was horrible, but not like it was when I was fifteen. He was my first foster father. They gave me a room in the basement of their house and then he waited until everyone else was asleep."

A wave of understanding washed through Booth. Her abduction had forced Brennan to relive this again and again. Whatever it was, it wasn't like he didn't know. He just didn't know the details, and was fairly certain he didn't want to.

"A fifteen year old doesn't understand the world, Bones. You didn't know that was coming. There was no way. You couldn't have fought that off. You didn't have any training, and you didn't know that people were like that, now did you?"

"No, I didn't. I left that foster home in the middle of the night two weeks later. He told me he would bury me in the basement if I didn't have sex with him. The whole G-d damned time, I feel like I'm never more than just a reach from that room in the basement, with the dirt floor next to the bedroom. He showed it to me and told me it was just not finished at first."

Booth was silent for a moment. His tone was solemn. She looked at his face in the dim light of the bathroom. For the first time, she had an accurate word for the expression he had most often. Careworn. He draped his arm over her shoulders. He was warm and reassuring. She moved in closer to him, letting go of her knees and putting her head on his chest. She tried not to cry. Her chest heaved. His other arm wrapped around her.

He spoke softly. "It's just you and me now, Temperance. No more basements. I promise."

He touched her face, wiping the tears away. He got to his feet, and offered his hand. She rose as well, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "If it's all the same to you, can we leave the light on?"

"Yes."

He sat down next to her. She slid onto the bed, and he rose to go back to the couch. She looked at him, her eyes searching for something. "Would you… hold…me?"

He nodded, well aware his actions had crossed the line into the personal, well aware that he was done giving a damn about lines; he lay down next to her. She lay on her side, looking at him. She put her hand on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat. He wrapped her in his arms.

For the first time in a long time, they both slept well.

Brennan stirred, a smile playing on her lips. In the muted light of the bathroom, he could see her closely. The nightgown didn't hide much or her really. He could see the generous swell of her breasts. He could smell the soap on her skin. A soft groan escaped her lips. He kissed her forehead. Her hands slid gently over his abdomen, enjoying the warmth of his skin. Much as he loved the closeness, the slowly stirring heat of her body, he needed to remove the temptation, as his friend Father Flanagan would have told him to do. Booth rose quietly from the mass of sheets, intent on getting that morning cup of coffee.

He turned his head back to Brennan, taking one more lingering look. A part of him wondered what she looked like with make-up. It's not that she wasn't pretty, but a more sexist part of him saw a stunningly sexy librarian there. It was just after five in the morning. He thought about calling out for coffee but he wasn't sure if the kitchen was opened yet. He pulled on his clothes slowly. He was beginning to feel the dull ache in his shoulder. He didn't know if he should leave a note or just what, so he decided to let her sleep. He left the room, letting the door click shut behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

**S.S. Valentine, Day 2**

Booth found his way to a small area marked open stow. It was what Jared called a sponson, a room-sized area that is usually designated for some purpose. There were storage crates in this one. They were tied down and netted, and the room smelled like cigarette smoke. Booth looked out at the sea. He could hear the gentle crush of the water hitting the side of the ship, the great rattle of the engines as they churned through the Atlantic. He looked out across the water. It was becoming daytime, shifting from inky blackness to the slate grey of stormy skies. He sat down on a crate to focus himself, hoping a moment of relative quiet would center him. A part of him feared having to leave the company. It had been his life for so long now. But he had slept in the same bed as the pretty doctor, and he knew that sleeping with anyone, sex or not, brought complications. There were protocols in place and he had broken almost every one of them. In his mind, dismissal wasn't a possibility, it was a reality.

It's not that she wasn't complicated enough already. Once they got back to the States, she would go to protective custody and he would have to pay the piper. He didn't know if he'd be able to see her, since she is supposed to be a state secret. There was no way in hell that the Feds were going to let anyone know she was safe and sound on American soil. Whoever had sold Brennan out had gone to considerable trouble to do so. Her abduction had been by the numbers Red Hand method, and it showed. A stunningly beautiful woman vanished right off the street in Inverness of all places, and no one said, saw or heard a goddamn thing. The police weren't notified until the next morning, which was no accident either.

He heard a door slam shut in the distance. He found that his ears were reaching for sounds that weren't there. Booth didn't really consider himself the superstitious type, but he had a quiet kind of respect for the things that couldn't be seen. He'd crouched instinctively, reaching for a gun that wasn't there._ Fuck! I left it back in the room_. In his sleepy but happy state, he had left the room unarmed. He resolved to go and get coffee.

The ship was heavy with silence. He figured there weren't more than a couple people up at this hour, but they'd be up soon. A ship underway is never all the way asleep_. Always alone and always surrounded_, Jared had told him. He felt fairly certain little brother had never arranged to clandestinely escort a super intelligent, undeniably sexy, hottie of a scientist across the Atlantic. He chuckled to himself at the idea of it. One day, maybe he and Jared could tell stories about their adventures. He'd chock this up as a victory in the sea story department. Unless of course Jared was serious when he had told him he'd fought sea monsters off the coast of Hong Kong.

Booth was advancing on the door before he reminded himself he was not armed. One of the first things taught to covert operatives is that unlike Special Forces operators, they are not actually bulletproof.

He hunkered down behind a row of crates, listening for people sounds - feet shuffling, talking, anything. He walked back inside and began his slow descent toward the galley.

The galley was open so he helped himself to a carafe and filled it with fresh coffee and then stuffed his pockets with packets of sugar and creamer. The morning shift cooks were hard at work. He could hear the sound of food being made, the smell of sizzling bacon and eggs frying, blended with the scent of strongly brewed coffee in the air. He didn't want to leave Brennan too long, but he knew she needed her sleep.

He reached into his other pocket and found a cell phone. Did he dare risk a call out from the ship? He didn't think that range would be a problem, not the first day underway. He wanted a progress report from Jimmy, to see if there was any forward movement on Brennan's case. He thought he'd dumped the cell phone earlier. It still had about half of its normal charge. He thought better of it, at least right at the moment, preferring to keep it as a last resort. The charge would only last a couple of days at most.

Booth ran a mental checklist as he sauntered down the darkly lit passageway back to the room. No gun, check. A slowly dying cell phone, check. Possibly falling for Bones, check. Pops had a saying - _Some days, you eat the bear; other days, the bear eats you._

Booth had a feeling he was at the start of a bear brunch.

He started making his way slowly back to the room.

There were a lot of things weighing on his mind as he recalled that earlier he had lingered with her lying next to him, not wanting to go anywhere. He had wrapped her in his arms and kept her safe from the night. He shook himself from his thoughts and pulled his coat a little tighter, the Atlantic wind nipping at his neck while he thought about what would happen when he returned to the States? When the inevitable happened with the CIA, it didn't mean that his career was necessarily over. He knew people, he had contacts, and the market for freelance operatives in the American intelligence community was wide open. He hadn't entertained the idea of what was going to happen with Brennan. For now, the best he could do for her was to even the score, to bring forth the ones that sold her out, and to let the pretty Doctor get on with her life.

He walked down a corridor. It was dark with only a red light to illuminate the length of the passage. As he rounded a corner toward another darkened expanse, he heard the unmistakable click of an automatic pistol cocked and ready to fire. He feinted right and moved left. The sound of a low caliber pistol, muffled, exploded in the small hallway. He didn't know who it was but he knew what to do. A sound like a trash can being dumped on the floor barked through the hall, as a bullet whizzed past his head. He wanted to dump the coffee, but he needed it, it was his very best weapon. He moved quickly down the length of the hall, another bullet nearly finding its mark. His mind registered that whoever was doing the shooting was using a silencer. Most people have the wrong impressions about silencers, they don't silence shit… they just make a gunshot sound like something that isn't a gunshot.

He came to a staircase, labeled ladder well, and didn't hesitate. He darted upward knowing that his best bet was to draw whoever was shooting out into the light. He cleared the top, and squatted down as he heard the sound of heavy feet trailing behind. He flipped open the top of the carafe, paused a moment and dumped the contents over the side of the stairwell. The scalding liquid found its mark- the stairwell was filled with a muted cry of pain and anger, as the man fired wildly, missing Booth altogether. Booth tossed the carafe aside and began climbing stairs as quickly as he could. Chances were good that whoever was doing the shooting knew where his room was. Although he didn't like the idea of putting Brennan in immediate danger, he did like the idea of having his gun.

He moved left toward the passageway that was one deck down from the state rooms he was occupying. He came to the end of the hall and took the stairwell. He looked around to see if there was anyone else there. He sprinted the distance of the hall. He was keying in the combination to the door when a short red-haired man came around the corner with a silenced pistol leveled at him. The first shot grazed his arm. It stung like hell, but he pushed the door of the room open. The room was pitch-black, causing Booth to stumble inside. Brennan was standing there gun in hand as he passed through the door. She moved… fast. She cleared the doorway, raising her arm in a smooth, graceful arc and shot the red-haired man in what appeared to be the upper chest. The sound of the pistol filled the hallway. The man fell back, his gun clattering on the tile.

Brennan closed in and Booth followed behind, cradling his injured arm. The man she shot was struggling to get to his feet. Booth moved forward and kicked the man sharply in the upper back. He grabbed the man's pistol and slid it down his back waistband. Booth brought the man to a sitting position and asked him his name. The man simply replied "Fuck you." Booth got back to his feet taking a moment to examine his wounded arm. The bullet had grazed him right above the elbow. However, Brennan had driven her shot home, hitting the man in the right side of his collarbone near the shoulder. Booth told Brennan to keep her gun pointed at the man. He started to help the man to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Brennan asked.

Booth replied, "We are dragging Shamus here in for some answers."

The man looked at him. "Holy shit. Casey Dunn is a fucking American."

Booth said nothing. He shoved the smaller man through the door, and directed him to a chair. He looked at her calmly. "Go into the bathroom and wet down a couple of towels. I don't think there is any blood in the hall, but give it a good once over, okay?"

She checked the hall first. Nothing. A few men were standing at the end of the passageway, looking at her. She smiled and waved, and walked back into the state room. She started wetting towels in the bathroom. Booth was speaking quietly with the red-haired man. There was a knock at the door. Booth kept the gun aimed on the man while he poked his head out. The captain of the ship stood there.

"My boys down the way here, they heard some noises. Is everything okay?" The Captain asked.

Booth replied, "Yes, Captain. We heard it too. I don't know what it is. Didn't come from here, though. Maybe a pressure valve or something?"

"I suppose so, yeah. Tell that lovely wife of yours she can't go walkin' round the ship in her nightgown, ya hear me?"

"Yes sir. Fetching one though ain't she?"

Booth winked conspiratorially. The captain smiled back. "That she is. Like I said no more nightgowns. Maybe a slip next time though?"

Booth smiled reassuringly. "I'll see what I can do."

He shut the door gently. Brennan was still in the bathroom.

Booth laid the first gun down on the table. He didn't bother with the accent anymore.

"Who sent you, and how many are there?" He inquired.

"Don't matter. You'll be dead before your feet touch American soil." The red-haired man heckled.

Brennan came into the room. She handed Booth the damp towels. He laid one flat on the table. He handed the gun to Brennan. He took the other gun and laid it down, slowly taking it apart as he spoke. He spun the silencer off the end, and began smoothly taking it apart, paying more attention to the gun than the man in the chair.

"Let's try this again. How many, and who sent you?" Booth said nonchalantly.

The red-haired man replied, "I don't suppose the name can hurt. See, you fucked up when you shot Patrick Riley. You should have got his brother as well."

"Declan? Declan Riley is dead."

"You think so now do you?"

Brennan noticed that Booth's hands never seemed to leave the disassembled gun, smoothly laying out the parts, almost as if he'd done this every day, like making coffee or setting an alarm clock. He blew off smaller pieces and ran his fingers over others. He was cleaning it. She didn't understand why.

"Alright then, so Declan Riley isn't dead?" Booth questioned.

"He's a ghost, asshole."

Booth ignored the man almost entirely. "Fine. So how many are there? I got one this morning while I was getting coffee. You should know better than to fuck with a man before he's had his mornin' wake-up."

Booth tossed the other towel to the man, who stuffed it in his shirt. Brennan was not familiar with the Irish mob, but it dawned on her what she was seeing. Booth slipped the last of the gun together, making a light metallic click. He admired his handiwork.

"Fine instrument you have here. It's Finley, right? You and your brother did some Red Hand work out in Cork last year?"

"Fuck you. My brother is dead."

"Yes he is. Do you know why?"

Finley smiled. "He died for the cause."

Booth did a little work with the silencer. Something clicked again. He put it back on the gun. "Your brother- Silas, right? He bombed a bus full of children in Belfast. The cause. Always the god damn cause."

Brennan felt herself tense. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as cancer bones. Seventeen children, dead and gone. "

"Seventeen little rich fuckers we don't have to worry about now. Silas vanished after that. I think he's alive somewhere. I'll see him someday, one way or the other."

Booth cocked the gun. "I want you to know. I choked Silas Finley to death in a whorehouse in Cork. He's dead. Quite dead."

The smaller man's face registered rage, but he kept calm. The smaller man reached for his cigarettes. He shook with pain, his shirt soaked in blood. A thin shaky hand tossed Booth the rest of the pack. He took one out, and lit it.

"So that's it then?"

Brennan understood clearly. Her eyes widened. "This isn't an interrogation, it's last rites."

Booth leveled the gun, and shot Finley three times in the chest. The harsh sound of the low caliber made her ears ring, but different from how the car bomb had. The room was sealed and all that sound was right there. Booth put the gun back down, slid the clip out, and stubbed out the cigarette in the damp towel.

He moved quickly. He grabbed one of the blankets that came with the room and wrapped Finley in it tightly. He didn't ask her for anything. He went to the bathroom and washed his hands and face. His elbow hurt, but it was fine.

He sat on the couch across from her. "I know this isn't easy. Finley was going to die the moment he went into this room and he knew it."

Brennan stared at him, through him; her eyes measuring him as she silently got his number. "If we had let him go, he'd have tried to kill us again, right?"

His voice was soft, almost gentle. "Absolutely."

Brennan asked, her tone implicit with meaning, "So what now? " She wanted to know where they were going to put the body.

Booth paused a moment and responded calmly. "We dump it off the sponson as soon as we're sure no one will spot us."

"How do we do that?"

"Easy. You get dressed. You walk around until you find a fire alarm as far from here as it can be. You pull it. I'll take care of the rest."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Dear loyal followers and new fans, I'm sorry it's been so long since the last update. I've been working on a critical deadline at work, and since the last chapter didn't seem as popular (it didn't get as many reviews or page hits), I wanted to take some time to think about the direction of this story.

I'd like to give thanks to those who have added this story to your favorites, subscribed to alerts, and left feedback for the last chapter. Lastly, I'd like to give a special shout out to the following fans who have left multiple reviews since this story began or have emailed me directly to share their input:_**boothaddict77, coolaquariun, couchpotato565, Cremant, daffodil101, Daisy60, EowynGoldberry, lapl, laurelboneslover14, my-completeness, nertooold54, pampilot67, squintwannabe, Tamarakv, TemperTemper, and wazo29**__. _

As a side note, if (those of you who haven't commented) you would please take the time to drop a line to let me know your thoughts on chapter 8, as well as this chapter, I'd greatly appreciate it. I'm not sure why the last chapter received such a lack of response. Please share your comments, so I can learn from my mistakes. Keep in mind, that like most new authors, the more reviews I receive the more motivated I am to write and post the next chapter – LOL. Thanks again for your support and I hope you enjoy this latest installment!

**Taking Finley for a swim…**

Booth reconsidered. "We still don't know who the other shooter is. What we need is a diversion to clear the area near the sponson even if it's just for a couple of minutes."

Booth thought it over a moment. "I'm going to go pull the fire alarm." Brennan objected clearly. "I will pull the fire alarm, but I'll need one of the guns." Booth consented. He'd seen her handle a gun in Dublin and he had no doubts that she could take care of herself.

He handed her the pistol with the silencer. She checked the chamber, clicked off the safety, and struck a pose bringing the pistol with two hands up to her face. Booth smiled broadly and said, "Look, it's Pussy Galore." Brennan gave Booth a vacant doe-eyed stare indicating that she didn't know what he was talking about.

"Pussy Galore was a Bond villain. " A flash of understanding crossed Brennan's eyes. She said, "For a moment there, I wondered just what the hell you meant." Booth chuckled softly and began slipping on his shoes. "I'll be listening for the alarm, Bones."

Brennan walked into the bathroom casually saying over her shoulder, "Give me a moment to get dressed." Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom in jeans, a t-shirt she had clearly borrowed from Booth, and the leather jacket that he had left on the couch.

Booth liked the look. He nodded his head in approval. "Go get 'em Bones." There was a warm rush of air as she exited the room. Booth estimated that there would be a fire alarm in less than five minutes. He stood up straight and stretched out for a moment, limbering up his muscles to hall the dead Irishman up the stairs to the sponson. For the next couple of minutes, it was all about the waiting game.

He'd been hesitant about letting Brennan out of his sight, but she was armed. Although she wasn't invincible, she had an ability to defend herself. More than that, he knew that she was capable, so he recognized the immediacy of the situation.

Although he'd quit years ago he thought seriously about smoking one of the cigarettes that were still on the table. Wrong time, wrong place, he told himself. Once they got rid of the body, Booth was gonna do the one thing he had set out to do earlier, track down coffee and breakfast.

He had started to get lost in a thought when the alarm sounded. He opened the door and listened closely for people moving by. He counted to ten and took a deep breath. The next thirty seconds were crucial. He hoisted the dead Irishman up over his shoulder and stepped out into the hallway. It was maybe fifty feet to the stairwell. He covered the distance quickly. By the time he got to the top of the stairs he could feel his chest and shoulders burning from the effort. He crossed the hall to the sponson and opened the door, which came open with an airy pop.

Fifteen feet to freedom, he told himself. Forcing air into his lungs he crossed the sponson and rolled the Irishman off his shoulder, onto the rail and into the water. The dead Irishman vanished into the deep within a blink of an eye.

Gasping for breath, Booth sat down for a moment. He hadn't bothered to take a gun with him, as he was fairly sure he wouldn't need one. He knew that eventually someone would notice that Finley was missing. Although he wasn't sure as to how long that would be, he was fairly confident that they had some time.

Booth got to his feet and went to go look for Brennan. He didn't see her in the main hallways, and for a brief moment, he was gripped with fear. Where had she gone? He decided to check the room, and as he opened the door, she came down the stairwell. "You know Bones? I think we'll call in for breakfast." She replied, "I couldn't have said it better myself." She tossed his jacket back onto the couch. He liked seeing her in his t-shirt. It was cute. He had been a long time since he had seen a woman running around in one of his shirts…too long.

"So what sounds good for breakfast, Bones?"

"Oatmeal with fruit if they have it, tea and toast."

Booth ordered bacon and eggs. He also asked for a carafe of hot coffee. In fact, the coffee was the main thing he wanted. For the last several months, he'd taken morning coffee at a café near the apartment Casey Dunn rented in Dublin. He was going to miss that coffee.

Brennan sat down on the couch. "Do you have any plans for us today? Are we going to hang out here all day? I mean… is there something we can do?"

"It's protective custody, but we aren't prisoners. I'm sure we can find more movies, or poke around for a bit…you know… something to keep us busy for a while."

"I get the impression you haven't really done the protective custody thing before?"

"Not a lot of call for it in my line of work. So, let me ask you a question. When we get back the states, do you have, you know, people waiting on you and all?"

"My friends and staff at the Jeffersonian. What about you?"

"For the first few days, I am going to Philadelphia. I'm going to go and see Pops, maybe give my brother a call, and then head back to Virginia for whatever lesson they decide it is they need to teach me. "

"Would it help if I gave some kind of statement, that you were in a tight spot and you helped me the best that you could?"

"Not really, because the expectations of a field agent are different. We are not police."

"I didn't need a cop right at that moment. I needed you."

Booth didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't know if he should tell her that he was starting to need her. He focused on the moment.

"Breakfast will be here soon. So, why oatmeal and not bacon and eggs?"

"I'm trying to eat healthier. I've even thought about going vegetarian."

"Alright, well, I hope you don't mind if I order bacon and eggs, then."

"Not at all. So once we get done with breakfast, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know another movie maybe, or a board game I guess. We'll find something."

There was a knock at the door. Booth could smell coffee. The day was looking up already. He opened the door, to find the captain of the ship standing there taking a sip of the steaming brew from a Styrofoam cup.

"We need to talk, son."

"I know it, Captain. Come on in."

The old man eyed him. He was old and leathery, and his mouth cocked up on one side, almost but not quite like he was smiling all the time, if not for the scar that vanished into wiry grey beard.

"One of my boys, Finnegan, says you doused him this morning, hot coffee in the face. He spent most of the day in the sickbay. Now, I'm not pointin' fingers just yet, but d' you mind telling me what happened there?"

"Simple as could be. I was coming up the stairs, and old boy there, he was behind me. I tripped is all- He ran off before I could offer a right good apology. If you would extend my apologies, I'd be thankful."

Brennan noted that his tone suggested such ease, such casual deception. There were moments when she wondered what it was he wasn't telling her, but at the same time, there were things she wasn't telling him. He slid right back into Casey Dunn mode like flipping a switch.

The captain eased his stance some. "Look Mister Dunn, you are here because I owe Jimmy Donnelly a favor. Nothing more. I'm well aware of who you are and what you do for a living. I won't have the mafia playing games on my boat. I'm a simple man, Mister Dunn. I like quiet. I like taking dinner with my family when the trip is over. Now, I don't know who this woman is, but she sure the hell isn't your wife. It seems to me like you are doing your level best to help her out somehow. I can respect that. But there will be no more shenanigans on my vessel, understood?"

A weary smiled crossed Booth's face. He held out his hand. "Think of me as a ghost, Captain."

The old man's face creased appreciatively. "Besides, that lazy bastard needs to get his arse off the hospital bed and back to work. He isn't hurt serious, but he ain't real happy. So, if we understand each other, I'll be getting out of your way and will have your breakfast delivered pronto."

"Say, Captain? I was wondering, beyond the lounge there, is there anything else on the ship for entertainment sake? I'm not expecting a casino or anything, but I was thinking about taking my lady here for a walk around."

"Tell you what. I have to go, but a little later in the day, give me a call. I got something that can get you two out of my hair and out of public view for hours. We have a holding storeroom. We have the majority of a traveling theater group's wardrobe and props locked away. They used to travel with us back and forth, but then the owner and the main actress divorced and we more or less got saddled with it. It's been sitting there for a while. Might be fun for you two to get in there and have a look around. It used to be the quartermaster's holding area, office and all, but since we moved over to mostly cars, we retired our quartermaster."

Booth thought there was more to the story, but the Captain looked a little pensive about it. Booth smiled and held out his hand. "Sounds great sir. I'll be makin' that call after I eat, maybe this afternoon, yeah?"

"Sure enough. Get your food, boyo."

The calls were made. Booth sat back on the couch.

"Tell you what, Bones. How about after breakfast, we take a leisurely walk along the deck, get some fresh air, maybe sit and look at the sea for a bit?"

She flipped off her shoes, and sat down next to him. "Sounds good. I need some fresh air. But you heard the captain, we have to be careful."

Booth considered that statement for a moment. To his mind, it was a matter of being less careless. He'd make sure to stay armed if he left the room, and he'd minimize trips if he didn't need to take them. He was tired, so goddamned tired. His back ached from the effort, and having been shot at twice in two days wasn't helping him either. His shoulder burned and his elbow ached, and he was running low on booze.

Brennan seemed to measure his number. Awkward as she could be sometimes, he got the feeling that she was better with people than she let on. It was like a part of her just didn't deal with the stresses of everyday life, people stuff that the rank and file dealt with. It occurred to him that even though she spent part of her career on various digs around the world, she was mostly research bound. She had all the answers she needed then and it didn't have to come from a person.

Booth understood a part of that. His years as a Ranger had taught him a form of that, a sort of self-reliance that is born of hard facts and harsh circumstances, a happenstance math that informed him of the world around him. Snipers are buried in that kind of thought. It was wind speed adjustments and hairline calibrations, which at the end of the formula, if it worked out right, was a precise answer, no dividends.

When Rebecca had aborted their baby, he'd thought about leaving it all behind. He wondered where it was that Brennan went in her private monologues, what demons haunted her nights. She'd told him some, but there was a lot more that he needed, wanted, to know.

Her hand on his arm bought him back to the moment at hand.

At a casual glance, Brennan's eyes were beautiful if a little cold, but it wasn't the measured coolness most people thought it was. It was… curiosity.

"Breakfast will be here in a little bit. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Bones. I hurt my back a long time ago, and it still gives me hell sometimes. I think I pulled a muscle taking Finley for a swim."

"Stand up, let me take a look."

"What, you aren't a doctor, but you play one on TV?"

She looked momentarily confused. "I'm a real doctor. I have Doctorates in Forensic Anthropology and in Kinesiology. A strained back I can fix."

He stood. No point in arguing. He reminded himself to lay off on the cultural references. She just didn't get it. It wasn't that she was dumb, not even close. At times, her ignorance of pop culture seemed as measured as the calm she projected. It occurred to him that neither one of those impressions was accurate.

Her hands ran down the length of his back, her fingers probing, sliding over the soreness gathering at the base of his spine. She placed her hands on his neck and leaned his body sharply to the right. He felt his back pop, heard it too.

"That isn't perfect, and you should see a specialist, but will that do for now?"

He had to admit, it felt better.

If she'd asked him how he had gotten hurt, his pat response was an old football injury. Of course, how was he supposed to explain the truth_? "Well, you see, I spent a few weeks getting tortured by Afghani insurgents after I killed a few of their guys. Nothing personal, just business, you know?"_

It was easier to say football injury and get it over with. He'd found that when people noticed and did ask, which was rare for starters, that it was a matter of saying that and the conversation was over. People only seemed interested in winners when it came to sports stories.

As promised, breakfast was delivered promptly. The smell of strong coffee filled the room. Brennan carefully doctored her oatmeal. Booth dug into his eggs and bacon. Bacon in the US and bacon in the UK weren't the same. He liked crispy bacon, and the UK had a slightly more soggy approach to their breakfast fare in general.

Brennan sipped her coffee. "Did the captain say he has a theater troupe's worth of costumes and props locked away?"

"Yes he did. After I get some rest, do you want to go have a look around?"

"That's fine. Are you going to lie down again?"

"I planned on it, yeah."

"Do you mind if I lay down with you?"

Booth paused a moment, finishing a mouthful of toast and eggs.

"Okay, let's look at this logically. I'm in a room with a comfortable bed, and a smart, beautiful woman. She asks me if I want to lay down with her. Was that ever really a question?"

That doe-eyed look again. She was thinking about it. "Well, I guess not, no."

She smiled at him, a smile that reached her eyes. Neatly divided into three parts – one part amusement, one part pleasure, and something else he couldn't quite nail down.

The dishes got heaped back onto the tray and placed outside the door. He took his shirt off, intent on feeling the cool smoothness of the sheets beneath him. She vanished into the bathroom a moment, and emerged with her nightgown on. Even if this went nowhere, even if she never saw him again, she liked Booth. She had noticed more than once that he was uncomfortable with the things he did at times.

Her father had told her once that generally, good people are not good at deception. She wondered if Booth was the exception. With his ability to mimic, to shift gears, and his looks, he should have been an actor. When he looked at her, his eyes devastated her. She couldn't lie to him. She looked at him laying there on the bed, his body like a geometric equation, all flat planes.

She turned the lights out. Even though she'd slept well enough, more sleep never hurt anyone. Let alone sleeping with a chiseled spy. Eventually, she would tell Angela about this, and she would be jealous. It was Angela that seemed to attract all the sexy dangerous men. Brennan had dated mostly from the ranks of the Jeffersonian – proud, interesting, well educated men.

He held her close to him as he drifted off. He kissed her forehead, gently. Her lips grazed his neck. She wanted to kiss him. She laid her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, as it gradually slowed while he faded off to sleep. She felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. Peace.

The last two weeks of her life had been horrific. The last two days with Booth had been intense. He was right. Rest. A chance to recharge the batteries more than just required sleep. She was intrigued at the idea of the costumes, but that could wait. She was pleasantly full from the breakfast, warm from being next to him. She felt her body relax, in essence uncoiling from the tension of everything. She knew she would have to talk with a counselor eventually, but at the moment this was the best form of therapy she could imagine.

He smelled of soap and sweat, with a hint of coffee. She felt her eyes becoming heavy. He pulled her to him, serene in his half sleep. His eyes were open, but he was tired, so tired. She pulled his head to her chest, cradling his face in her hands. Their eyes met, in a space between sleep and waking. He came up to meet her, their eyes locked. She moved toward him, a breath caught in her chest, her lips parted just slightly. He could feel her heart beating as she lay next to him. Their lips met. The kiss was soft, slow, and cautious. She felt her chest fill and fall with relief. She was safe, cared for. More than ever right in this moment. Their fingers twined together.

She found sleep before it found her.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Dear loyal fans. Thank you for your patience. The hubby and I apologize for the delay. We have been buried in work, work and more work. We appreciate all the great reviews, the steady stream of new followers (hopefully ever growing) and look forward to getting you the next chapter, hopefully on time!

Since I haven't had time as of late to reach out to you all personally via private mail, I thought I would take the time to acknowledge some of you now.

Firstly, to all of those who reached out to me to reassure and encourage me, letting me know that reviews, hits and page views weren't everything, _**I thank you. **_Some of you mentioned that alerts and traffic stats don't always work, and I found this to be true when this last chapter was posted. Thanks to all of you who left a review for chapter 9, I had more reviews on this chapter than any of the previous ones posted. I also only had 145 page hits, as it appears that the site was down again and not tracking hits or visitors for 3 days – go figure.

I'd also like to welcome new followers, and thank those of you who have recently added me to their favorite author, favorite story and subscribed to alerts.

Thanks to the following fans that left reviews for chapter 9: **couchpotato565, pampilot67, daisesndaffidols, Megan, hiitsjess, EowynGoldberry, lapl, SheJustDoesn'tKnowItYet, nertooold54, and my-completeness**

To: **Tamarakv, LJLanham, squintwannabe, TemperTemper, Jane, brokenbones14, Cremant, boothaddict77, Charly23, and Daisy60 – **Thank you for your touching words, inspiration, ideas and constructive criticism. Many of you have been my constants, and make writing and posting this story worthwhile for me.

**TemperTemper and Boothaddict77** – You always seem to catch the buried treasures or "easter eggs" if you will, that we try to hide in each chapter. So in honor of the upcoming holiday, the hubby and I have loaded this chapter just for you. Let's see if you catch them all.

Next verse same as the first – LOL. This chapter is contains some back story into Booth and Brennan's childhood, as well as some humorous attempts at intimacy. Please share your comments with me, good or bad, so I can learn from my mistakes, by leaving a review. Thanks again for your support and I hope you enjoy this latest installment!

**Nobody puts Brennan in the corner**

Booth woke up slowly. He looked to his right and found that Brennan was partially draped across his chest, while the rest of her curved against the side of his body. He slid from the bed gently. She didn't stir. She was sleeping better than she had slept since they got underway. He sat on the couch, taking a moment to clear his head. He liked the idea of poking around in the store room with the costumes, it sounded like fun. He didn't know if that would be Brennan's thing, but come on, who doesn't like costumes? He dialed the number for the captain's office.

"Cap'n speaking."

"Good morning, Sir. This is Casey Dunn. I was wondering if we might have a looksee at the storage hold with the theater gear."

"Sure. I don't know what all is down there, but you are welcome to take a look around and vanish for a few hours. I pop down there for a drink now and then, mostly making excuses about paperwork."

"Is there anything off limits?"

"Not at all. I mean, most of it is old. I'd like to sell it off one of these days, but I never quite seem to get around to it. My kids had Halloween out of that room more than once."

"See? You found a purpose for all that stuff after all."

"Right. Well, since we are trying to keep tighter lips about these premises, I'll bring the keys myself."

"Thank you kindly, sir."

He hung up. The keys were dropped off a few minutes later. He wasn't sure if waking Brennan was the best idea. He milled around the room, putting his clothes on and straightening up, in the hopes that the small noises would wake her up a little bit at a time.

She began to stir while Booth was getting ready. She sat up and looked around. She began to dress as well. It was the middle of the day. She walked into the bathroom and began brushing her teeth while he was shaving. The bathroom wasn't big by casual standards, but they made it work, elbows and knees and grins. She pulled her hair back into a pony tail. Booth liked that look. It accentuated the graceful lines of her neck.

Her voice was still husky from sleep. "Are we going to the storage area with all the theater gear?"

"Yeah, I thought we'd go have a look. I called down for the keys earlier."

They made their way toward the front of the ship. The storeroom was beneath the anchor room. It was a large, triangular room with a small hall off to the left hand side. Offices, she guessed, given the size of the storeroom. It smelled a little stale in there, like the doors hadn't been opened in quite some time.

Booth adjusted a vent near the door, and fresh air began to flow slowly. It was cold, but not biting cold.

There were several rows of boxes, shelves and racks, all neatly spaced. A few items were lying around, but the place seemed to be well organized.

"The captain, he said there are a few valuable items in here, which is why he keeps it mostly locked up. He plans to sell all of this when he can find a buyer, but for now, we can take a look."

Brennan wandered down an aisle, Booth down the one next to it. Although he'd never admit to it, there was a part of him that liked the idea of costumes and dress up. He supposed that his undercover work was a more mature and evolved version of that fondness. He'd never been in theater or anything, but he had dated a couple of theater girls in high school.

On a rack near the end of the row, he found a battered leather biker jacket, which had been nursed and cared for, but had seen better days. It was black, with a zipper up the front. Biker style. He couldn't resist. He pulled it on, and walked around the corner to show Brennan. He pointed his thumbs up, and said "Ayyy".

She nodded like she understood. "Oh the Schvanz right? From Happy Days?"

Booth laughed out loud. "You mean schwantz? No, no. That's a term for a man's privates. The guy in the leather jacket was the Fonz. You know…Arthur Fonzarelli?"

She looked amused, as she often did when she made her pop culture references. He wondered sometimes if it was a test of some sort, to see how people would react to her, this obviously smart woman confused by anything not immediate to her profession.

"I wasn't ever a big fan. I know that Mister Miyagi was in it."

Maybe she wasn't so ignorant after all. She went back to rifling through the costumes. Booth slid the jacket off, but kept it with him. He liked it. He'd grown up with Happy Days reruns, that and the Waltons. Pops loved that show.

Brennan found a platinum blond wig and put it on. She blew Booth a kiss and said, "Happy Birthday Mister President."

He chuckled. She might not know Happy Days, but she knew Marilyn Monroe. Perfect. She danced around in her blond wig. He imagined her in the famous white dress as well. He liked that a little too much. He noticed a door in the small hallway.

"Hey Bones, let's take a look in here. More stuff maybe, who knows."

Like the first door had, it opened with a dry pop. It was an office, a spacious one for what it was. There was a desk against the back wall, shelves overhead everywhere, a battered sofa, and a small TV stand with a VCR. An old VCR, archaic even. It looked like the back end of a 73 Chevy Nova hatchback.

The place was tidy, well kept, like someone dusted more than every now and then. It smelled of cigarettes and old papers. The well beaten couch looked like it had been slept on more than once. For a passing moment, Booth felt like had walked into his grandfather's office, like he was ten again and in a place he wasn't supposed to be in. Pops had caught him in the office a few times, just looking at things. A part of Booth really wanted to entertain his ten year old self and go through the drawers. He smirked at the thought.

The floor was bare, not even tiled. Brennan stood next to him. "There is a solemn nature to this room. It seems like a records keeping area of some kind."

She pulled a book off the overhead book shelf nearest the door. She opened it and ran her fingers over several pages. She didn't know if this room was a part of the tour, but it was what she liked the best so far. A records room is exactly what this place was. She was looking at a manifest written in the summer of fifteen years ago. She reflected quietly that fifteen years ago, she'd have never seen herself here, doing this, with a handsome spy. She really did have to write a book.

A part of this room reminded her of more than one lab she'd been in. It was silent, cool, and clean to the last speck. She could have easily performed a post mortem in here. She started running down a mental check list of the things she'd need to do it. Work hadn't filtered through her mind since she'd been taken, and to think about it, to cast a clinical shade on this little room, was refreshing.

Booth sat down on the couch, his frame in complete recline. Something about this room made him relax. Probably, she thought, it was the distance of it. It was just the two of them and the captain was the only one with any idea they were there. They had privacy, more even than the stateroom afforded. For once, he was relaxed, mellow, and engaged.

"I wonder if there are any movies in here to go with the VCR."

"I don't know. The Captain told me he slips down here for a drink now and then, with the excuse that his paperwork is down here, even thought he does everything on his laptop these days."

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "Do you think he might keep booze down here?" Her face lit up. Booth was not sure if it was the idea of looking around for it, or just having a drink at mid day. He liked both ideas. He started looking behind shelves and in drawers. Whoever the quartermaster had been, he was fastidious to say the very least.

Brennan proved to be the better booze hound. Under the desk there was a case of blended Irish whiskey, from the Cooley distillery in County Louth. It's brand name was Feckin Irish Whiskey. Bones smiled and handed Booth a bottle. She tried out her terrible Irish accent again.

"I got yer feckin' Irish whiskey roit here."

Now that was goddamn funny. He laughed out loud, a broad smile painted across his face.

"That was good Bones. Great, in fact. We might make a bonny lass out of you yet."

"My name isn't Bonnie, its Temperance."

He shook his head. Rome wasn't built in a day, and the pretty scientist wasn't coming out of her shell all at once either.

Booth checked the wires on the old TV. Everything seemed to be in working order. The TV cabinet that it stood on was filled with VHS movies. Booth's mouth curled up at the corner, remembering simpler times, just him and Jared renting movies on a weekend afternoon. Pops would be down at his VA chapter, or maybe visiting the neighbor Miss Johnston. Miss Johnston was a widow, and Pops would tell them that he was going to her place to help her with some crocheting.

Evidently, the widow Johnston did all her crocheting on Saturday afternoons. He and Jared would get lunch out and then either go to the movies or rent them. It was their brother time.

"Booth?"

Her voice jostled his focus into the here and now. Brennan had found a stack of small paper cups inside a file cabinet. Although Booth suspected that all that booze belonged to the captain, his letting them into the storeroom had more or less purchased their silence about it. He'd remind Brennan later, not a word.

Brennan grabbed the bottle she had handed Booth, and poured two shots into the paper cups. She handed one to him. He took the cup and held it out for a toast, which she tapped with mock ceremony. Booth exclaimed, "Na zdorovye!"

Brennan asked, "What are we now, Russian?"

Booth replied, "Oh is that what that is?" He knew damn well what it was; he spent his first six months of the CIA stationed in Vladivostok, but he wanted to see if he could get a chuckle out of Brennan. She didn't respond, so he decided to let it go and move on to another topic.

"I found some movies, Bones. If you like eighties movies, we are set!"

The quartermaster had a mix of comedies and action movies, a few that Booth had never heard of, and a few well known movies from the era. There were movies all the way up to the mid nineties. There was even a movie in the VCR.

He didn't know what it was until he plugged everything in. He recognized the music immediately. Oh how he hated this movie.

"I love this movie!"

Perfect. Marvelous. _Remember that bear, Seeley_.

"I'm not watching _Dirty Dancing_, Bones."

Her smile was reassured with something behind it, something he couldn't quite put a finger on.

"Agent Booth, in the last two weeks I have been kidnapped, tortured, treated in unspeakable ways, lost virtually all contact with the world I know, and been chased across backwater where the hell Ireland. You can watch Dirty Dancing. You will watch Dirty Dancing. Am I understood?"

Her tone was informal, sweet, kidding even, but she presented a damn good case. One rewind and another shot of Feckin later, they were watching Dirty Dancing. His mother had loved this movie. The summer it came out, she took both he and Jared for repeated showings. When the movie hit the dollar theater, she went nuts. He seemed to recall that it was the first movie she owned on tape. Everything else was just a rental.

Strange as it was, the moment in time became strikingly normal. Hunted by Irish mobsters, probably going to lose his license to kill, trapped on the open sea, and here he was sitting on his ass on an old sofa, watching a movie with a pretty girl. He reflected that this was probably one of the more surreal moments of his life, this mixture of the fantastic and the mundane. He got himself ready for the chorus of _Hungry Eyes_. He and Jared got so familiar with the damn movie they would play with the lyrics and sing them when their mom wasn't listening_. The Time of my Life_ became The Crime of my Life, and some of the stuff they came up with originated in the one place that teenage boys around the world depended on for their humor…the toilet.

He found himself softly humming the chorus of Hungry Eyes. Even poor Pops had been taken to one of the many,_ many_ showings of Dirty Dancing, and he commented that he thought this song was actually the best on the soundtrack. Jared was making fun of one of Booth's girlfriends one day and asked him if she had hungry eyes. In a moment of candor he had responded, she had hungry thighs. Before long, he and Jared had developed their next parody which as they grew older was simply called fuck me eyes. Booth was mumbling the lyrics softly before he realized that Brennan was looking at him. "And who precisely has fuck me eyes?" He felt like a complete idiot. Sometimes even the suave spy didn't know what to say.

"Oh, I'm sorry Bones. I didn't realize I was mumbling the lyrics out loud. When I was younger my mother was obsessed with this movie and took me and my brother with her to every matinee showing she could find one summer. The only way Jared and I could maintain our sanity was by making fun of the movie including rewriting the lyrics to the soundtrack. When I heard the tune just now, it brought those memories back, full throttle. To be honest, I'm not sure if I truly hate this movie, or if I just really miss my mom."

Brennan asked, "What happened to your mother?"

Booth hunched his shoulders as though this was an old question. His response was practiced. "I don't know. She just vanished one day. No calls, no letters, no nothing."

Hearing those words Brennan felt her heart sink. She knew the same feeling. "What do you think happened to her?"

"For many years I nursed a suspicion that my old man had something to do with it. As I got older I realized that he's a lot of things, but a killer he isn't. Jared thinks she joined a convent somewhere. What about you Bones, what about your parents?"

She realized that she was going to give Booth the same pat response that he had given her, a response that she gave every time she was asked this question. Instead she decided to tell him the truth. "I was fifteen and it was a couple of weeks before Christmas. I came home from school one day and they were gone. Every day I told myself that they were going to return, but each day I was disappointed all over again. On Christmas morning I awoke to the smell of freshly baked Danish Kringle, my mother's recipe, and freshly brewed coffee. I thought for sure that my parents were back, so I eagerly grabbed my slippers and robe and ran down the stairs to greet them. Only, when I went downstairs, they weren't there. Russ had made mom's recipe and found the Christmas gifts they had stowed in the closet for us, and placed them under the tree. He was trying to give me a decent Christmas despite everything that happened. I was so hurt and upset; I told Russ that I didn't want his breakfast or his pathetic attempt to distract me from the fact that Mom and Dad were gone. Looking back in retrospect, I guess in my own way, I was rebelling and had told Russ that he wasn't enough family for me. Not long after that, around New Year's Day, he left too, and within a week, I found myself a ward of the state."

Brennan stopped speaking and returned her attention to the movie. Booth had listened to her very intently. But as the movie progressed he grew more and more restless and began bouncing his knee up and down, so much so that Brennan shot him an irritated look.

"Would you like to watch another movie Booth?"

"Jesus H. Christ yes."

Brennan's eyes became doe-like for a moment and she said "There is no historical data that suggests Jesus even had a middle name or that it began with the letter H."

"It's nicer than saying Christ on a crutch. Hey, I think I saw a copy of _Kindergarten Cop_ in the cabinet."

"I don't see the practicality in hiring a kindergartner as a police officer. Besides that violates many child labor laws."

Booth gave her a look like she was from another planet. "Too literal?"

"Yes, just a bit. It's a movie Bones, I'm gonna make a safe bet that you've never seen it before. It was shot in the same town as _The Goonies_ if that makes it anymore relevant."

She replied noncommittally, "That sounds interesting. Can we watch Dirty Dancing again?"

Booth smiled at her casually and then reached over and tickled her ribs. She snickered not having been tickled in quite some time.

She tried to tickle him back and before long they were play wrestling on the couch. She straddled him while his hands settled on her hips. She touched his face and he looked into his eyes uncertain of his next move. She leaned forward and their lips met, tentatively at first, searching for an invisible answer. They broke apart looked at each other briefly and then came together again, this time, less hesitantly. Booth gently bit Brennan's bottom lip and then soothed it with his tongue. Her lips parted and their tongues met. The kiss became deeper, more needful than either of them had felt in a long time. He ran his hands down the length of her back, his fingers gently pulling the material out from the waistband of her jeans. His hands made contact with her bare skin. She pulled him closer to her, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest as she began shifting her weight so that she could feel his arousal. The motion elicited a moan from his lips. She deepened the kiss further, her tongue explored his mouth wanting to learn him, memorize him. The last thought that entered Booth's mind was that this was the best viewing of Dirty Dancing ever.


	11. Author's Note

**A/N: **Dear loyal fans – Thank you for your feedback on chapter 10 and for hanging in there with us. I ask that you please be patient for a bit longer. The reason for the delay is due to my husband (and primary author of this story) being in the hospital/rehabilitation center for almost three weeks with infection. We are hoping that he makes a complete recovery and will be able to come home soon.

We will get the next chapter up and resume our normal posting schedule once he has been released and is feeling up to it. Please know that we appreciate your continued support and have not given up on this story. Josh sends his apologies as well.

Best regards,

Bonesluvr25


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